


Red as Snow

by rabbitprint



Category: Final Fantasy X-2
Genre: F/M, General
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-14
Updated: 2004-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-04 09:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 73,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picking up where Blind Spot left off, a POV Baralai as he spends the two years after the Crimson Squad. Spoilers for FFX, FFX2. Baralai/Paine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Sequel to Blind Spot, this is my poor attempt to continue to explain just why the Crimson Spheres are 1. Used to open the Den of Woe, 2. In the Via Infinito._

_In my dream, she is smiling. That is how I know it is not real._

_Her hair is long. Much longer than it should be because it is let down, long as a swordfighter would never allow it lest it become entangled in one's blade and one's eyes and that be the difference between a wound mortal and a wound slight. Her hair starts that way when I am looking at her shoulder, but by the time my gaze moves up to her face, it has transformed itself into doves that rise into the sky._

_"I'm dreaming," I tell her, feathers surrounding us both. And she smiles._

_That is how I know it is not real._

_Which makes it so much easier to be able to look at her, straight in the face. Past those crimson eyes of hers that have always been her strongest color. I can say the truth to her, gentle, such as the reality of "You're not here." Then later, "You were never here," and eventually, "Goodbye."_

_She is a creature of russet when she fades away from me. Brown collapses into red like mud-water reversed when a suicide opens their veins in the river; night swells the corners of my vision while my sight is obscured. I am drowning in warm blood. Everything smells like her, right until I feel like vomiting._

When I wake, my hair is always spread out on my pillow tangled. My face is buried in its mess. The world looks grey when I first open my eyes, grey strands from my scalp and grey fibers of my pillowcase, and then I lift my head dizzily and remind myself that both are white. It takes an effort.

They say that there are teas you can drink to help you sleep better, mixtures that the shoreline healers use that taste of berries and a few from the mountains that are thickened by dust. Other charms exist that the fisherfolk use so that they will not be kept awake in terrified conviction that the thump of a barrel against the hold is actually Sin's fin come calling. Tie coins in your hair, or beads. Drink elixirs that leave you groggy the next morning. Do anything it takes, so long as you can keep your thoughts bottled up until the next day comes and you can properly distract yourself until night returns to haunt you like the smell of a lover's sweat in your clothes. Then do it again. And again. And again.

If the tossing and turning I do at night is any indication, I will need all these methods and more.

The covers are thick in Bevelle. While the climate itself has never been half as balmy as that of the more temperate ports, nor as strict as Mount Gagazet, winter does not show mercy here. Sheets get bunched up at the bottom of the bed when I kick them at night; every morning I have had to excavate them from the heavy quilts, yanking them back up to the proper corners so I pretend I sleep undisturbed. Were it not that my breath mists in the air from the chill, I might think to go without any blankets whatsoever.

Breakfasts are delivered in the main halls unless you are fortunate enough to have a maid on call. This is from necessity. Coffee that is left steaming in thick mugs before your door will turn tepid before you have the time to drink more than the upper third of the liquid, so the priests take advantage of those of us who enjoy hot food to hand out daily assignments to those who make it to the dining tables. Orders are given out right alongside the bread. Whoever has the seat closest to the fire is naturally assumed to have arrived first. They are rewarded for their willingness to sacrifice sleep for a display of duty by being granted the easiest chores, so it has become a scramble to bolt down the stairs before you are even fully awake just so you can be blessed for false devotion.

I could be one of them. Being exemplary will only net you unwanted attention, however, so instead I wait until the thumps pounding down stonework stairs tallies three or four sets of feet. Then I depart for breakfast. It is a formality only; even though I do not plan to follow the typical path to power inside of Yevon's practices, starting off with appropriate humility will win me support with the younger acolytes.

New Yevon, some say, is just a different word for the same beast. They are right. There are ancients to unseat who have entrenched themselves deeply into Bevelle's politics, and if I wish to confront them here on their home turf and survive, I must be cautious about it.

My greatest stroke of luck so far is that everyone I would need dead already is.

Mostly.

It was easier than I had hoped to return to Bevelle; Seymour had, unaccountably, kept true to his word of erasing me from the Crimson Squad. I saw the records once and found a stranger's name written where my life had been. By the sound of the letters, they had imitated a man from Djose in my stead, given him better marks in hand-to-hand combat and worse grades in tactical planning.

I should not have been irritated. My simulacrum stand-in failed anyway in the end. This is my security, when the other three are still considered alive. No one remembers the Crimson Squad directly; they have all been killed by now, the primary instructors in charge of our terminations, but I do not like to take chances at this point in time. Not anymore. I did so once when I turned my back for only an instant, and then woke up with Highroad dust gumming my eyes and the bodies of my comrades laid out in beds beside me.

Paine was right about that much. I might just be too conservative. Right now, I am labeling it as caution.

Being well acquainted with the habits of the maesters means that even in death, I do not trust Seymour. Paper trails are one thing. Machina records are another, and long hours spent accessing Bevelle's databanks has shown me that the half-Guado was honorable in the letter of his word. I do not exist as anything more than a hired hand taken on by the maester shortly before his unfortunate demise.

However, there must have been some lever that the half-Guado was planning to extort my future loyalty with, and that I have not yet found. It is too much to hope that Seymour has not kept backup records of the ones he had destroyed. Somewhere unseen there lurks a beast composed of all the files of my past activities, and whoever has that in their hands will have all they desire to remind Bevelle I have reason to dislike it. I will be destroyed unless I can find it first. That or I will be owned, with knowledge as my leash; of the two, I am not yet sure which option will bring me the truth.

I do not have allies. Nooj taught me that lesson. You cannot keep friends close to you no matter how sincere they are because they will only distract you, blind you to the snake that is coiling around the rosebush.

It is better by far to travel the hard road without them. Gippal would never be able to master infiltration to Yevon's ranks. Nor would he want to; it simply isn't his methodology. The Al Bhed is too direct, too honest. At any other time I would say that was a virtue, but we all have our lives on the line with this gamble.

Paine is equally unsuitable. I tell myself this even though I cannot think of a good reason why.

The best excuse I can come up with is one I repeat every morning when I clatter down the cold stone stairs. Paine should not be involved any further because she had not seen the cave as the three of us had. Paine's hair is short as a fencer's and I do things around her that I am not ready for, such as look at her face and start to smile and forget that Bevelle is my task to manage.

Love is Paine, and if intend to keep it that way, I should not seek her out ever again.

Only Nooj and I have the experience of lies to be able to hunt out the truth of the Den of Woe. I have a head start on him by searching amidst the priests directly. It was there that I learned that our Team was being blamed for the deaths of all the others; we were the only ones who made it out alive, and without reasonable explanation for the insanity within the cave, our Team was the natural scapegoat.

Prices were assigned to our heads for a short time. I believe that Nooj's was the highest as he had been blamed as the ringleader for our collective acts. The cost on my replacement's was average, surprisingly, but as he never existed, the reward has gone unclaimed. Now only Gippal's remains. I could not cancel the Al Bhed out as neatly as I had Paine's listing when I had access to the records, but at least she is safe from hunters.

The Deathseeker has certain advantages of his own. He has a reputation already established and did not have to sell himself for a brief time to any maester in order to win a way back into Bevelle's heart. Nooj's sins in the Squad were overlooked in favor of his achievements in the Crusaders, but also largely because Maester Kinoc was dead by that time and could not argue otherwise.

This was good. I cannot mourn Kinoc during prayer hours because I am glad to have him gone, though I bow my head in fortified respect just in case it will keep him that way.

We have chosen very different fields to embark on our war against one another. Mine is secretive by default. I do not have the preplanned alliances that Nooj has mastered with his time in the Crusaders, but that means I have a relatively clean slate to work with. I must use this to my advantage if I wish to survive my search for answers, and arrive there before the Deathseeker triumphs.

For all my work, there is a great weakness at its heart. The records that Seymour must have kept are evidence enough to turn the priests upon me if they believe it will bind me to loyalty. Experience has proven that Bevelle enjoys addition of blame if even one drop of weakness is tasted on the air; it is not my involvement with the Squad that worries me so much as the knowledge that I will join the ranks of those conveniently disappeared if it suits the dominant priests to do so.

Not only are the documents troublesome. There remain numerous spheres from the Crimson Squad itself out there in the world, and each can be plucked and played at any viewer's whim.

I know this because I still own one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Lustrum is a joke referring to the use of the word as both a five-year mark and an old Roman purification ceremony. The choice of words relates to the use of praetor as a rank in New Yevon as well as within the Roman Republic._

The air hits me like a mother's palm when I step outside to winter. Brisk, it whistles down the Lustrates walkways and navigates the high collar of my robe before nipping inside to roost. Poor taste on its part. I hate the yellow stain of the plant dyes used for these formal affairs; even while I walk, my fingers tug relentlessly at the fibers as if they could rip them away so easily and be done.

Yellow and ichor-green. Cuffs overlong to encumber one's hands and lacings that require ten minutes work if you so much as think about trying to embark on bodily functions. Waistlines that cause one to imitate a giant tube, like so much carpet rolled up and bid to march.

Yevon might change its name, but can they not alter their means of humiliating trainees?

The morning is early. Only a few guards participate in walking the watch-heights, their machina slung on their shoulders so that they can cup their hands to their mouths and warm them. Even the birds prefer to sleep rather than brave the dawn, ducking their heads beneath their fluffed wings and clustering thick as summer ticks beneath the roof eaves.

I herald them with a glance; someone kind of heart must be feeding them to have such a flock here in the wintertime. That or the birds are desperate. If I had wings and the freedom to travel, you would not find me roosting in Bevelle.

Particularly not in this section of the Temple. Acolytes who are fortunate enough to achieve the classification of Lustrum are moved to the second level, closer to the heart of the intricate estates and yet separated from convenient escape away. From here, the walk to the inner halls is a great deal shorter and the view allows one full study of the courtyards, ringing outwards in patterns of ritual language spelt out in stone. We watch visitors violate the architecture daily as they cross the inset traceries, leaning out our windows like so many vultures to spy on others' business.

Those of us who take advantage of our improved location to take observation of strangers are deemed necessary to be monitored by the guards in turn. No one fears us jumping, no matter how precariously we dangle ourselves. It would be all too convenient if we did.

Lustrum are what crafters would call journeymen if comparisons were drawn, and from here the advancement to priesthood is almost certain. Bevelle likes to know what manner of minds will bolster its ranks. If there are problems breeding in the skull of an acolyte, it is best to catch them early on. Blood that is too fresh is dangerous; we all know it, we who reside in the Lustrates Halls and wait for promotion.

We can taste the wariness of older wolves who have bedded in these dens for decades.

We can also freeze each morning trying to climb down all the steps to breakfast.

I technically do not belong here. In fact, Seymour's rather unique fall from grace has left me in a position that could have been fatal were it not that I had chosen to separate myself from him beforehand.

I barely saw most of the Guado after my pact with the maester. Such was likely my salvation. Seymour's death throes might drag me down with him yet, but I would cheapen myself at this point if I surrendered so easily.

The only reason I have forced my way into these dorms is because I arrived with the polite insistence from the start that I rightfully belonged. With Bevelle in chaos from the disappearance of the maesters, it was possible to work my way into the cracks. Confident smiles will take you everywhere. That was a trick I acquired from watching Gippal finagle extra helpings of rations during training; sleeping quarters are not the same as carrots, but it is unwise to shirk either.

This will not save me forever. I have begun to acquire names instead, doing small chores for the Lustrum; they are far simpler to influence than the older priests, and view me as their comrade. Most are under the impression that I have business ends to tidy up so that Yevon can recover what Seymour has mangled. A few of them have dared to approach me privately, ducking their heads and whispering in hushed, respectful tones.

_What was it like to have to guard the Summoners to Mount Gagazet, what was it like to watch the Sending of all those Ronso? How frightening it must have been to realize the plans of Maester Seymour. What did it look like to see Sin broken at last, how close were you, did you touch it?_

I smile, polite, and let them fill in the blanks with their own imaginations.

It is a duplicity that reminds me at times of Nooj. Usually when I'm washing down the bread of my breakfast with hot tea. The taste goes from honey-sweet to bitter, and I set down my mug unfinished.

Time is running out. I need to find someone else to assign myself to, and quickly. It will only be a matter of weeks before suspicion finds itself upon me when the priests are searching for their next sacrifice. No one has yet noticed that I hand in blank reports to an illusionary superior because overt interest in Seymour's affairs is suspicion itself, but soon I will lose that immunity. Curiosity is my enemy.

I will make it my weapon, as is my right. Bevelle raised me by these laws. If I cannot succeed here, then Gippal surely cannot. And Paine will be herself, Paine will be eternally herself, so Nooj will win above us all unless I stick fast to this course.

Sometimes I miss them. Then I continue walking across the archways to the Highbridge.

This desire of mine to advance myself further with Bevelle's plots has nothing to do with how I am starting to hate the ornate uniforms required of the Lustrum. The stiff fabrics do nothing to retain body heat. They itch everywhere imaginable. Visions of burning my outfit have become more appealing by the day, but this is not why I am impatient.

Absolutely not.

Three names are assigning themselves on my mental list while I nod to the guards stationed at the cornerbridge between the Lustrates and the Highbridge platforms. One of them, a woman named Gella, has been complaining of long hours researching for the priest who favors her. She does not like books. This will be her failing later unless she can win the eye of the warrior monks; Gella is more comfortable with a weapon in her hands, but her current priest fancies himself a pacifist as a dilettante might stroll a gallery. Violence is the mark of a brute unless it suits him at the time. To his eye, Gella looks better in tight robes that restrict her freedom of movement and so her talents come secondary to his whim.

She hates this. I wonder if she would agree to help me with only the bait of better clothes to woo her.

Another is a woman named Shelinda; she was involved with Bevelle directly after Maester Mika's disappearance and the arrival of the Calm. No one is certain just what she is doing in the Lustrum. Common theory is that it is a mistake, that the priests shoved her in these ranks because she proved herself useful once and now they do not know just how much she learned during Yevon's recovery.

Her temperament would imply harmless ignorance. The priests seem to have no idea what to do with her.

Shelinda can never get her uniform on right--the buttons always slip in the back where they're not properly done--so the rest of us have taken to stepping behind her and remedying the problem as tactfully as we can.

"Why does it always have to be so _freezing_ up here?"

And the last is Dopha.

Frantic, flustered Dopha with his hair irrevocably brushed in all directions save a common one. Brilliant with spatial equations. Terrible at everything else.

I hear his wails before he enters my field of vision, muffled goat-complaints bleating in the thin morning light. "No, no, _no!_ It can't be snowing _again?_" Scuffed boots stamp themselves in double-time. I look over; Dopha is complaining fruitlessly to the sky, a hand raised to catch and cup the flakes. "By the Fayth! I thought we just finished sweeping the stairways clean, now I'm going to have to get them all cleared off _again_ and it's never going to be done in time -- "

"Would you like some help with that?" I start to ask, but my words are trampled underneath the other's fluid ire.

"Lord Trema is _supposed_ to meet with the consol in the afternoon. I've got no time for this." Another plaintive groan, and Dopha glances down, sees me. "Baralai!" From the sound of his voice, I might have spontaneously appeared just a second ago like a particularly subtle Aeon. "I'm glad to see you! Look, I know, I mean, I know it's taking you out of your way, but do you think..."

The question trails off. He fidgets. Receiving no explanation, I look to the bundles of dried twigs he carries in his hands.

"Memorial wreaths." My verdict is curious. Winter habits of ceremony interest me primarily because of how people will be acting during them, rather from any enjoyment of the holidays themselves.

Perhaps I am becoming cynical in my old age, just like Nooj claiming he was dead at nineteen.

"I've got to get them on _all_ the bridges before noon at the latest. Baralai," the Lustrum adds, gripping the wreaths in his hands so he can shake the snowflakes off, "do you think you have any time spare? Just a little? I'll, uh… um..."

It is not as if I have reports that he could compile in my stead. "You can pay me back eventually." I will have to think of something. Maybe not. Goodwill is a currency I will need a great deal of and it will not hurt to bank on it now.

This answer relieves him; I receive an arm's load of branches shoved in my hands before the Lustrum scurries off down the western half of the Highbridge. I assume I am to take the eastern side. Withered perfume keeps my company while I walk to the far end, sifting up from flowers woven with the garlands and vanishing into the winter air.

At first appearance, I do not recognize the type of bloom. Then I lean down to blow the snow away from the pale coral clumps, witness the delicacy of their dottings along each stem. There are flowers the size of my thumbnail that grow with petals miniature -- Kilika Poppies, they call them, and these are what have been painstakingly gathered for use of this year's memorials.

I wonder how many infants must have died this year for Bevelle to be resorting to such symbolism.

The poppies are named so because of the claim that the port town's sorrows were eventually reflected by the land itself; in equal grieving for generations of lives lost to Sin's casual thrashings, even the flora of the region sympathizes. Supposedly, the milky coloring of the plant represents young blood that never had opportunity to age red, which is a consideration I privately believe is somewhat morbid.

The flowers refuse to blossom any wider than a babe's eye. They are eternal children for those who have lost their own.

That is what the elders say. Inwardly, I think they are only inventing stories to feel as if their offspring have not died without mark left behind to mourn for them. It cannot be true that Spira itself bothers to weep for us. There have been far too many deaths for the land to trouble itself with self-mutilation for them all.

Besides, if such tales were true, I'm surprised that the snow in Bevelle is white. Red would be a far better color for this place.

Red or black -- like ashes sifting from the sky, scraps of paper that are burned in the furnaces and whisper their secrets to the birds. As I help to hang the garlands, I think I expect to see the snow here run through with threads of soot, like the veins of fat and muscle in a hunk of butcher's meat.

Instead, the world is pure anew with each attack of flurries. Yevon looks white. White as my hair when I wake choking in it, turning to shades of grey through the cloud-fog descending.

I wonder if Gella will be sneaking into the second floor gardens today for practice in this kind of weather.

These thoughts occupy me while I work to meet Dopha halfway. Questions have created themselves in my mind and had plenty of time to sort themselves out during the task. It is difficult to not appear misinformed when you are ignorant to begin with, but there is another round to embark on with the wreaths; unless we tie them securely to the overhangs, the snow will gather so thick as to cause them to drop like overripe fruit.

More than enough time to discover who and what has set Dopha to this task.

The first query presented is easy enough to predict. "Tell me," I urge the Lustrum gently as I wait for him to untangle the wads of cloth ribbons, watching handfuls yanked out of pockets and most dropped on the ground. "Why is there such trouble being made over a meeting?"

"You mean you didn't hear?" In his surprise, Dopha fumbles with a skein of blue-lined ribbons. I catch them for him. We are meant to tie each of the colors in a specific order on the garlands to symbolize the age and gender of any deceased, but I find myself impatient with mourning customs when I might be next.

"The village these came from, Larsolia?" Dopha waits for my recognition. The name is unfamiliar to me, but I nod anyway. He continues. "They were holding spheres in collection for us. But there got to be so many that fiends... they attacked the village and almost wiped it out. The survivors of Larsolia aren't happy. They're blaming Yevon -- New Yevon, I mean," he corrects himself, "and putting us at fault. Some of their elders are going to be visiting soon and if the Temple doesn't look like we want to make restitutions, it could be a real mess on our hands."

"Spheres," I observe, a single-worded understatement.

"All kinds," Dopha confirms with a nod, stooping to fetch up a fallen scrap of ribbon. "I had a look at the crates when they were carrying them in--just a quick one!" he laughs, a hushed sound like a dehydrated corpse chuckling. "They didn't look like the common use spheres. I thought I saw a blue one, some green ones… even one that was red as blood, I think."

I am an incarnation of indifference. I am Nooj, only with personality. "Oh?"

"From what _I_ heard," he adds, dropping his voice like a masterspy towards me, "Lord Trema's trying to get the crates categorized before Larsolia's elders arrive. That way everyone might forget about the spheres, right? The priests are going to examine the shipment during the meeting and then pretend they never got it at all."

After noon. Dopha's revelation has given my day a shortened lifespan. It has had its throat cut in its crib.

"Who's on attendance?"

"Me, _of course._" With that, the Lustrum finishes sorting out the cloths properly and dumps my allotted colors in my hands. "But with all this work... I'm _never_ going to get it done right."

Possibilities of my future collapsing dance like an insane summoner in my brain. I do not like this.

Instead, I focus upon the mixing of greens and violet in my fingers. These are mementos of lives in my hands. I will not join them. "Would you like me to take over for you this afternoon?" My suggestion is far calmer than my stomach feels. "I had business I wanted to speak with Lord Trema about, and I might be able to catch him after his meeting. How does that sound?"

Naturally I have no intention of such a thing. Trema is the flagship of New Yevon, and to associate directly with him is as good as if I stood on the Highbridge and shouted allegiance to Seymour. Dopha's face, though, lights up with every inch of his belief in me and my nonexistent sacred affairs.

I try to ignore his expression.

"Would you really, Baralai? That would... that would give me all the time I needed. A fifty percent margin across twenty square floors would -- it still won't be enough." Calculations stop there, terminated faster than their owner's mouth could speak them in full. "What should I do about the ceremony decorations for the gateways?"

My mind is blank. I am no priest to consult. A confident smile will get you everywhere save where you want to be, at times. "Ask Shelinda?" Shelinda never says no. She is a sure bet for assistance; I can direct Dopha to her without guilt. "You might be able to catch her in the dining halls if you hurry."

"I'll do that." Dopha's nod is enthusiastic. It causes a dusting of flakes to scatter from his head. While we have been standing here in conversation, the weather has merrily coated us both under a blanket of white.

This is sign to resume our work. I have a double handful of mourning ribbons to apply, and the sooner I am done with them the sooner I can scout out the hall that Trema will be using. All I need to do is to remain as discreet as possible; so long as I can slip any incriminating spheres away before they are viewed, nothing else about the meeting concerns me.

"Baralai?"

Already halfway to proceeding for my half of the eastern wreaths, the other's voice halts me as neatly as the click of a machina's sights. "Yes?"

"Thanks." Hazel eyes crinkle at the corners; Dopha's gratitude shines through the curtain of winter drawn between us. "You're a real lifesaver."

I smile, as carefully as I can. Then I turn and walk into the snow.


	3. Red as Snow Chapter 3

The trip to the meeting hall is thirty minutes at a stiff walk from the Lustrates. It is even longer if you wish to do so in poor weather, what with how snow makes each narrow platform into a threat. As mundane as the task of shoveling the ice from the steps might sound, it is critical to keep Bevelle's walkways clear. A fall from any of them could kill.

It's the descent through thin air that captures my curiosity the most. Just a misstep and you could go sliding off the marble, strike the railing wrong. Tumble. Be thrown free by the world into a realm of wind and frost, the monochrome ground rapidly approaching. Flying into the air by accident, would you have enough time to even be afraid of your impending fate?

What must it be like to be confronted by all that white?

In those last frantic seconds, you might think it was purity itself that was killing you.

It could take hours before they would find your body, the crisp brilliance of your blood frozen into the snow around your skull. Worse luck would mean a blizzard pouring its fury upon your corpse.

Eventually even scarlet can be drowned; your name would be missed on the roll call during meals, your flesh a lump underneath the drifts before it dissolved into so many frigid pyreflies.

Then the guards could deal with your fiend.

Hence, acolytes from the Lustrum on down are given the task of salting the stones, scattering dirt and gravel to soften ice before we can chip it away. We are drilled on the importance of safety. In reality, I believe our careful attendance to weather conditions is intended to cut down on the temptation of certain priests to push one another down the stairs.

All we are doing is minimizing conditions for assassination attempts. Nature is too eager to conspire; we never know whose side it will be on.

It is not on mine this time. I slip while rounding a half-flight of stairs and go heavily to one knee; the flash of pain is like a hammer to my nerves. Slush clumps in my hand as I scramble to balance myself.

Damned robes. They could at least provide better padding.

Thirty minutes at a brisk walk becomes fifty from the snow. My palms are gritty from the sand. I've wiped them as carefully as I can on my pants while ducking around the corridors, but the sooner I can have a moment to run them under hot water, the better.

Gella is not in the second floor gardens when I limp by. I can see someone else practicing down there as I take the archway parallel; by the build, it looks like Somasil, another of the Lustrum. One of Gella's friends. Tanned, blockish chin, comes from a village off the Highroad nearer to Mushroom Rock. He favors her, she breaks his ribs in training. It's all quite understated in its romance.

But Somasil can't go near Gella so long as she's in thrall to her current priest.

He shadowboxes in the garden square instead. Gella and he alternate their hours. They both are keenly aware that there are gossipers at all times of the day, so neither of them leave any marks behind for the other save in the scuffing of their boots in the packed dirt, messages dug into the snow in the form of bootprints.

Once, Gella forgot her sweatcloth on the benches. Somasil noticed the rag when he arrived, but did not touch it. I know because I was watching him, just as I know there were two other guards waiting by the windows to observe what the Lustrum would do.

This early in the morning, there is only me. We can both thank the snow for driving the priests away.

Somasil lifts his head, panting, and sees my figure hovering like a hungry vulture. At first we are both perfectly still. We are two stags glimpsing one another in the forest and wondering who will charge first; then I raise my hand to him, an open palm of friendship. He smiles, a figure far below me, and does the same.

There are numerous infant plots weaving amidst the Lustrum that will be incorporated with the rest of Bevelle's intrigues come maturation. Somasil will be one of them. The man will be winnowed out and sent away on permanent assignment to an inland town before he can ever achieve the rank of priest. He is predestined to fail so long as the hierarchy believes doing so will dishearten Gella, make her more pliable to their suggestions of bitterness.

I must think of a way to unseat those plans and make them my own before that happens.

All in due time. I hurry along my errand. Or as best I can, wincing with every few steps, hobbling along until the ache becomes negligible.

No one has arrived to the hall before me. Even the hearth is cold, the fireplace empty. I choose darkness in which to conduct my work. Twin blocks have been placed in the center of the room between the meeting tables; in the dim half-light trickling between the heavy curtains, I examine the writing on their canvas wrappings.

Two crates. Larsolia. These are them.

It does not take much effort to yank the ropes wide enough so that I can part the outer wrappings and dislodge the top. Inside, colors glimmer. Splinters rake my hand when I shove fingers inside the gap; I will deal with any cuts later.

Each sphere is bundled in a mesh that is secured by a tag, much like fishermen wrap glass balls to use as floaters for their nets. For all that using spheres themselves would only attract ocean fiends, the practice has been adapted between fields of study to facilitate ease of transit. Mesh wiring is simpler in trade than boxes or grids; lucky for me as well, since it will be harder to notice one missing from a pile than out of an organized tray.

Luca, green. No. I hunt for color first, location names coming as secondary glances while I search. Red. _Red._ Where is it?

Blue from Cornel, no, orange from the Moonflow, no. Wait. Liquid clicks erupt in a rattle as I thrust my hand in deeper after a hint of ruby. My fingers snag in the netting and I dredge the discovery up, squint at the color in the dim light. Yes. This sphere is red.

The label says the point of discovery is Mushroom Rock.

I tug this one free.

The netting goes in the fireplace. I kneel by the hearth, swift to wad the smaller branches together for kindling. The consul will expect to find a suitable blaze warming the hall and banishing the winter chill; if I am lax to this business, they will label me incompetent and demand to know my name.

Strings coil back upon themselves when the flames catch and devour evidence of my theft. Only when I am satisfied that the mesh weave is completely obliterated do I stand. Quick work covers the crates back up again and rearrange the ropes to suit. All the while, unwilling to relinquish the sphere, I clutch the thing; it hums with a hue familiar and I cup it to my chest.

There. Everything is as it was before my arrival. I take the time to undo the ribbons of my outer jacket just enough to navigate the stolen orb inside a pocket close to my stomach. It will be safe like that. My own body heat will suffuse the surface until it is a mimicry of real life instead of solidified pyreflies.

When there is the chance for privacy back in my own chambers, there I will finally regard the contents. Not before.

Dopha's role on call was to provide the consul with organization of their comforts. Their thick jackets and elaborate neckwraps were to be hung properly on the hooks near to the hearth so that the clothes would dry from any slush; similarly, his was the duty of ensuring that the fire never burn high enough to become a distraction, nor low enough to give the elders a chill. He was to be a glorified serving boy. Those were easily overlooked in the fuss of business.

I am exacting enough in my details that, by the time all the consul have arrived, everything is in place. I accept the heavy robes of each priest with a respectful bow before and after the task, a murmur of greeting polite ready on my lips each time. They are trekking dirtied snow in on their boots. I take this to mean that the weather is only becoming worse.

Once everyone is seated, I take up position near the fire. The elders are bathed in a bloody light from this perspective; I am graced by the hearthstones outjutting, and can lean into their protective shadows without fear.

"If we have all arrived, I believe we might begin?"

This announcement stems from a man dressed with his collar laced all the way up to his chin. His name is Derindere or something equally gelatinous in pronunciation. I do not believe he is physically capable of turning his head while dressed like that; as if to prove my unspoken thoughts correct, Derindere rotates his entire body in order to regard the elder sitting to his left. Communication unseen goes between the two in the form of glances obscured by fire-glare. Then Derindere pivots himself back to view the entire congregation, trundles out from the tables to twitch his hands over the crates. He unbinds the shipment without a hint of suspicion that I have already tampered with it.

"First batch," the priest announces, a cursory glance to the tags of the top handful he has selected. "Four spheres from the village of Tanail, south of Larsolia. Collected two months, five days ago."

He sounds bored already.

I am not privileged enough to handle the spheres directly once the consul is in session. This does not bother me one bit. I would rather be out of the eye of the priests assembled here; there is no need for me to repeat myself in their vision again and again until they decide to turn their whim upon me.

Sorting begins. Each sphere must be played from start to finish for all the consul to bear witness. They will mark down the importance of the images presented. The tally at the end will determine what category each record will be filed under. Some spheres bear clues to political intrigues. Those will be assigned the highest value, their conspiracies reforged to Yevon's ends. A few are used to detail physical locations; unless there are clear caches of resource items, Bevelle customarily turns those specifications into architecture drafts, mapwork.

Information is power. The world has always been this way, and in this manner will it continue.

Others have been used for purely personal ends. A pair of faces laugh out their betrothal vows while sour-faced priests stare at them, scribble down the worth of two lives on their clipboards. Their value is low to Yevon. That sphere will be written over after being wiped and recycled.

I cross my arms as the judging continues, lean against the wall, and assume the role of so much silent decoration.

When I first came to Bevelle, the hunt for spheres had been one that I had originally held no interest in. Crates of the orbs came in every week and I considered them only hindrances. I knew that any records that would provide clues to the machina at the Den of Woe would be so highly classified that I would have no chance to study them on my own until I had ensured my personal power. My greater attention at the time had been fixed on rooting out Seymour's hidden reports, digging up stacks of the half-Guado's affairs.

Seymour had made enemies of the Temple archivists. He had requested all of the records centering around Yunalesca and Zaon. So thorough had the half-Guado been that any mention of the two in footnote, addendum or reference had counted as valid, and by the time he had finished, Seymour had emptied out sixteen shelves and four stacks worth of materials.

The archivists wanted it all back. I wanted my own reports.

"One sphere, Larsolia to Kilika route. Collected three weeks, two days ago."

As fascinating as the pair of Summoner and Guardian might have been, I really could have done without wading through several rooms of old children's stories.

They had slipped my mind in all that fuss over Seymour's pet obsession, the Crimson Squad and its Crimson Spheres--skipped out of my thoughts because I'd packaged any interest of the records away with memories of supply tents and buckled leather. Not thinking about the Spheres meant I could avoid the Squad. I'd had more immediate matters to address, such as the fabrication of innocence.

"Two spheres, Cerivi routed by Kilika. Collected one month, two weeks, four days ago."

Crimson reminded me of _her_. Of Paine; I wanted to pretend for a short time that I could live never thinking about the records and the woman who wielded their inscription machina. But I couldn't banish either entirely. Spheres that are delivered to Bevelle might provide valuable clues to my original quest, even if I wish to avoid them lest I think of fingers running into my scalp. A shoulder against mine. Low laughter in the dark. Paine and history will always be intertwined for me, just as I suspect I will never be able to see Mi'ihen Highroad without thinking of the setting sun.

Memories, like dreams, can't be so easily discarded.

"One sphere, Moonflow route. Collected two months, three weeks ago."

Then a single chance brought one record of the Squad to my hands, and I had realized the danger of my flimsy Guado-born excuse falling away. Now I am forced to remember her whether I like it or not.

Remember _them._ I have to remember _spheres._

"Three spheres, Luca route. Collected one month, one week, five days ago."

All during the meeting, I am careful not to touch the orb that weighs heavy as a stillborn infant in my robes. I school my face to blankness. I ignore the color of the hearthfire, the way it licks at its cage of stones and begs for its freedom. It could consume all the furniture here if it only was allowed. The elders, too, along with the crates and marking tags. The carpet running down the middle track of the floor. The winter cloaks.

Even me. Only the spheres would be left, records warmed and gleaming in the Bevelle ashes.

Chairs scraping back are my cue to snap out of my trance. The consul are getting to their feet, some holding out their arms expectantly for their wraps while grumbling to each other. They are more concerned over Larsolia's elders than the stories of minor lives, consider these spheres worthless.

This is as it should be for them; Yevon has more than enough ploys to juggle. They can afford to let a few slip.

Delivery of each set of coats to their owner goes smoothly. There is little difficulty in remembering who owns what. As the priests exit, some individually but most in small hunting packs of twos and threes, I keep my face aimed at my feet. The false humility serves me well; no one stops to inquire about the switch of Dopha's presence with my own.

The last cloak on the pegs is heavy with gilt. Its threads are picked out to spell Yevon's prayers down every inch of the fabric, meant to glimmer when the wearer walked. Each step shines with runes gleaming smug in any ambient light. When I accepted this jacket originally, it had been handed to me by Derindere; I was not considered prestigious enough to interact with its owner directly, but had required a middleman to pass on the glory to my keeping.

But Derindere is gone now, left with two of his closest supporters while they all muttered to each other about the recent reduction of tribute from coastal towns. In fact, there is only one person remaining in the hall while the fire keeps us both company, burning itself down in a last waning claim of total invincibility.

It must be Trema. I did not see him departing at the head of any group yet, and it is unlikely that a man so important would have walked alone. With this in mind, I force my gaze to remain lowered, even as I hear the scuff of shoes approaching. They edge into my field of vision. Stop. Intricate embroidery laps at the boot-toes of this man; brown and white fight for dominance together on a field of green. By his robes alone, I assume that he is Trema. It is a good thing that I can recognize the founder that way, since his feet are all I can see of him right now.

The silence grows uncomfortable within seconds.

When the priest speaks, I feel the relief of a criminal recalled from the death blocks. "You are... mm, the acolyte? Please have these crates delivered to my chambers." His voice is as quavering as an ancient, a man who should be past his prime, but I know better than to judge him on that alone. He is Trema. Founder of New Yevon; this man is my greatest threat.

For now.

I bow. Such an order is easy enough to fulfill, though I am already planning to have the shipment sent up by other hands than my own. There is no desire in me to encounter Trema again even by ill chance.

"Yes, my lord." My eyes remain averted by excuse of respect, but in actuality out of hope to obscure my face.

"Including the one in your possession."

I know better than to react openly. He could not have seen it. There was no one else in the hall when I entered, that much I was certain of. I have not touched the sphere during my role as Lustrum attendee. My pockets are deep enough and the robes so complex that there cannot have been a bulge.

The urge to glance down and check is resisted. I am no amateur.

"My lord?" is my reply, neutral with just the right amount of confusion to make it believable. Becoming angry would be an exaggeration; I am a Lustrum, and this is only a polite mistake on the part of my better. We will smile apologetically at one another and part ways once it has been corrected. "I'm... afraid I don't know what you mean."

Trema's finger plunges towards me, impales my coat with its accusation. He points directly at my inner pocket. There are layers of cloth which interlace above the sphere; all their bulk fully obscures my theft, as I ensured when I hid it there.

It is impossible for Trema to have known about my crime. It is impossible, and yet he does anyway.

Given no choice, I remove the sphere I recovered from the crates and display it, cradled in my hands.

Trema leans in towards me, nearing the evidence I present. Swamps dead in winter give off the same indecipherable aura that he does. Yevon has a more active fester; Trema reminds me of arrested rot. All my attempts to avoid sight of his face fail. He penetrates my personal space regardless, and in the periphrial of my vision, Trema looks as if he is smiling.

His voice does not match the same. It is coldly accusatory. "For what reason do you have this greed, boy?"

"It's mine, lord Trema." My mind is beginning to panic. A detached portion of my soul notices this, weighs the balance, and lets my voice be flavored with worried confusion. This is good. I do not know if I could have stopped it otherwise. "It belongs to me. It's not a part of the shipment..."

"Play it for me."

Time stops. In the nothingness that replaces it, Trema reaches out and seizes my hand. The skin of the priest is chill enough that it feels as if it is searing my flesh.

"My lord, I'm afraid the matter is personal -- "

_"Play it."_

I resist. My fingers refuse to loosen themselves from the sphere and so Trema turns my wrist like the gearings on an Al Bhed machina. He presses upon my knuckles just so. The activation on the sphere is triggered when he manipulates me as deftly as a toy; red light pours out from my palm and paints history on the air.

It starts with Gippal's voice.

_"Hey... I've got a question..."_


	4. Red as Snow Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If anyone's curious, this is the sphere detailed in Blind Spot's Ch. 9._

Paine condemns me without even knowing it.

_"They're still keeping tight watch over all of them. But I'm keeping my eyes open."_ On the sphere, she is shaking her head and I am hypnotized with my own doom. _"If it looks like I can get away with one, I'll bring it back."_

Trema's grip is turning my hand numb.

_"I just think we shouldn't do anything right now to make the instructors wary."_

Dated three months ago, the tag said. Was it only so short a time ago that I sounded so young? So willing to trust?

_"Better be careful, Paine."_ The camera angle shifts as the record continues to play, and I am glad that I cannot see my face on the screen. Being exposed to these reminders of the past is more than I think I can stand these days in Bevelle. It is hard enough to hear my voice saying such things--it would be useless to call out warnings to a screen, to have the person I am now lecture the person I was of twelve weeks prior. I can't tell my own memory not to believe. Not to trust.

But I wish I could. Very much.

The sphere clicks off. Trema and I are plunged back into the dim firelight as it writhes and twists upon the logs.

My words hang in the consul hall, repeating, throbbing in time with adrenaline.

_"I just might prove you wrong."_

_"I just might prove you wrong."_

I have been revealed as a traitor.

"Maester Kinoc," is as far as I manage to get before my voice becomes a cry. Trema's grip has tightened on my wrist. I swear I can feel the bones of my arm rubbing against each other.

"We will meet upon this later." Trema speaks patiently. He has all the time he needs to enunciate; I am hanging on his every sound. "We will speak at my leisure, and you will not run away."

To have my fate suspended must be intentional. My mind works feverishly, stringing logic together in the pattern I know of Yevon's habits. Trema must be waiting to see if I will expose others; he sets me free like a rabbit to see which way I will bolt, if there is a warren hidden to retreat to.

There is no reply to such a demand. I have no allies to betray. I made sure of that by coming to Bevelle.

"Agree." It is an order.

I am silent.

"_Agree_," Trema repeats, more forcefully this time despite the ancient's quaver in his voice, and the world in my sight begins to dissolve in a blur. My eyes are watering from pain. I can't say I feel the impact of my knees to the floor, save in some distant report of nerves complaining that this is _twice_ in one day I have fallen. If I keep such habits, I can expect bruises as dark as plums.

Still, I say nothing.

When the negative energy of Trema's spell burns its way into my flesh, I barely feel it. Everything about the man's touch is freezing, chilling the life from me; in this way it is a blessing as I do not realize I should hurt until the coils of the spell reach my shoulder and dive for my heart.

My muscles refuse to support me. The floor of the meeting hall tilts, sliding sideways and then vertical. Firelight streaming dull from the hearth fades; I see only darkness around me as I fall into a realm of infinite gravity pulling me ever onwards.

I do not think I black out. Not entirely. There were too many stars migrating in my vision, and I desperately trying to concentrate on all of them at once. Still, it is a surprise to me when the dizziness retreats and I discover that my face is pressed against the floor.

Lying prone for longer can't be that bad a decision. Everything is wonderfully numb. Snapping out of this haze just so I can realize I have lost a limb, or maybe just some fingers -- that is a discovery that can be put off.

Perhaps Nooj and I can reconcile together over a mutual dependence on prosthetics.

Soles scuffing against the floor finally bring me back from my disorientated trance. Trema is standing above me. When I tilt my head back to look up, forced to roll half-over to accomplish this, I see the founder holding the crimson sphere.

Knuckles like the bony talons of an eagle clasp the orb. I can do nothing but watch as he secures it within one of his own pockets; even though I force myself to remember the location, there is only enough strength in me to bear witness. I cannot stop Trema. His actions are at once creaking stiff with age, and filled with the ruthless power of determination. With so little effort the founder drained the strength from me. I do not doubt he could have taken the rest.

He recovers his outer robe from its hook with the same dissonance of motion, this elderly priest who walks and talks like a man gone senile up until he drives in the knife. It goes around his shoulders, and Trema secures the loops in front with a bemused dexterity.

There are no further words exchanged. The founder leaves the hall, and the twin doors close behind him with the same finality as a tomb's gate swinging shut.

Logs chitter to each other in the hearth in the tongue of combustion while the fire exhausts itself to embers.

At least _something_ in this room is enjoying itself.

By the look of it, I am uninjured. All my fingers are present. They're attached to my hand, too, which is always a good thing, and that hand to the rest of my arm. Nothing seems permanently damaged; even my nerves have begun recovery as I try to rub the life back into my stunned limb.

Trema did not summon guards to hold me prisoner. He knows I am trapped in Bevelle by my own dread until he is ready for me.

I think I am going to be sick.

Evening meals are well over by the time I finally stumble out of the meeting hall, one hand wrapped around my stomach as if there was a wound gutting me open and I still desperate to shove my intestines back in. I don't think I have the appetite anyway.

At no time did I swear aloud by Trema's terms. He and I both know that they bind me regardless. Even as I step out into the fresh air of winter, I feel the leash of the founder settling around my neck as secure as if the man swore me by leather and rope.

I could try to run. Dopha with his mastery of distance equations could summarize for me just how far I would get before Yevon's guards came pounding after.

Even with the vision of an army hunting me, the temptation to flee is overwhelming. Doubt nips at my resolve. I could leave Bevelle, I could find Paine and Gippal again and the three of us together might have a chance at finding our answers. So long as we remained at each other's sides, surely no obstacle existed that we could not overcome.

So long as we were together, we could survive.

Just like the Squad did.

I push myself away from the doors, finding the familiar track of my thoughts almost as ill as my nerves. The Squad failed us. Friends blinded me. I should know better by now; I will stand alone, or not at all.

It is a careful trip back down the stairwells from the meeting hall. Several times my vision darkens; the dizziness that bubbles through my blood is enough to find me groping for support against a wall each time, not daring to walk blindly across the bridges. Bevelle is a giant smear of white. The buildings are grey outlines fuzzed against a flattened sky, and if it was not still snowing, I might be tempted to lie down on the ground until I have my strength back.

It is colder out here than I expected. So cold that I do not realize it at first when I have begun to shiver badly enough to have my teeth chatter. Did I leave my own cloak back at the meeting hall? No; I never took it off to begin with. My memory stumbles along as it rewinds itself, trying to neatly avoid the moments that Trema tainted. No, I am still wearing all my layers, despite how they itch.

So why am I freezing?

Maybe because I am crouching in the snow again, palms planted against the ground, fingers fanned. The ice is so pale in contrast to my skin. I stare at the shapes my hands make when they are spread wide as wingtips.

A bird. Tree branches. Gippal's ridiculous ribbed pants.

I am kneeling in the snow. When did this happen?

_"Baralai?"_

Like an animal crippled, I lift my head and try to turn it towards the sound. Was that voice familiar?

A rush of warmth descending and my answer comes in the form of robes rustling thick as field-grasses in summer. Coils of brown hair are all I see until I manage to focus properly on the face beneath. I recognize her by her nose; it is wide from being broken repeatedly and reset over the years. Even then, I blink.

"Gella?" It must be. No one else has that much of a glare while wearing one of those stupid formal hats. "Aren't you supposed to be at practice?" Words slow to keep from slurring them; even then, I think I have spoken them entirely out of order.

Gella's response is to attack me. Then I realize she is only grabbing my shoulders to haul me upright.

I make a note to thank her for this later.

"Finished that just half an hour ago. Dopha _told_ us at dinner that you'd been doing him a favor at the consul, so... " her voice breaks off when I pull myself away from her, one hand cupping itself over my mouth. The act of her shaking me around has upset a delicate balance in my stomach. For a moment, I think I will be violently ill.

The nausea passes.

"Wha' happened?" Gella is studying my face. Her grip is practical, hometown accent slipping thick in her concern. Her priest sends her to voice lessons to correct this, but Gella ignores them in favor of me. "They do anything to you?" Eyes, intense. "Any of 'em hurt you wrong?"

It should worry me, that Gella knows to suspect such things.

I cannot explain to her that my distress comes from being outed to Trema himself. Or from being struck down by him as neatly as another man might slap a gnat's life from existence.

Instead I try to shake my head in the negative, end up coughing into her hand by accident. Finally I give up and simply resort to concentrating on not passing out. She seems to accept this answer, though she tactfully wipes off her palm on my sleeve.

Gella's fingerpads are roughened from her practice sessions. Rightfully, her skin should be as stiff as untreated leather from sparring, but her priest keeps her busy with books. It is a wonder that Gella manages to sneak away for time at all in the courtyards. I can tell she has been indulging because there is sweat-grain beneath the nails of her fingers, staining hands as sturdy as a farmer's.

She has the same practicality as one too. "_Belly-rubbers_," she spits. I do not understand the reference to her curse, but I assume it is a harsh one judging from how her face screws up when she says it. Then Gella turns her attention back to me. "Get to your room. You want me t' walk you there?"

The taste of my mouth when I swallow is as sour as week-old milk. "No. I should be all right." I say this with more conviction than I feel, which is easy because I feel nothing.

Standing involves supporting myself on the Lustrum. I wipe the clumps of snowdrift from my robes. When I get to my quarters, I would do better to change out of these clothes before the damp melts all the way through. Maybe into something simpler, so I can run in it and provide the gunners with decent target practice.

Gella does not seem to trust me when I take a step away from her; one of her hands remains extended just in case I look about to topple.

"Pale 'us a pyrefly," she mutters. In her distraction, Gella's words merge into a curious mix of temple-guided formality and her own childhood upbringing. "I'll send Shelinda up with tea."

This would make it twice in one day that Shelinda has been used to task. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost. "Really, I'll be fine. You don't have to bother her -- "

I am dismissed by a scornful cough on Gella's part. "Girl could use getting told what to do so she doesn't busy hersel' in all our business. Always asking us if we know what t' do next, sticking her nose in here, there, everywhere." The Lustrum's fingers wind themselves in my robes and heft me steady when I start to slide back down again. "You... sure you don't want me t' give you a hand, Baralai?"

I debate how far I have managed to travel during all my protests to Gella thus far.

"Maybe."

She interprets this as affirmative. I do not stop her. One arm, the numb one, gets slung around her shoulders and Gella grabs my robes at the waist to keep me in line. Despite the lateness of the hour, the evening has cast a blue haze radiating across the snowdrifts; winter may have the sun set early, but it compensates by having the ice reflect back the moon's light.

No one will care about two figures attached on the way back to the Lustrates floors. If any of the guards look, we can easily pass as a pair of drunkards. They can spend their time betting on when and where we will fall off the landings.

Business unfinished nags at me as we travel. "I need the crates in the hall shipped," I manage slowly as we both stumble along, speaking mostly into Gella's shoulder but also into her hat. "Up to lord Trema's. I need to do that before anything else."

Mention of the spheres is a mistake on my part. Gella's mind is a shrewd one; her priest has some merit for noticing that much. "Lord Trema cares about Larsolia that much, huh? Fool man. Even if he cozies up to the elders of it, no town's going to want t' hold spheres for New Yevon if they know they'll get fiends for it."

Thankfully, she is unaware of all the details.

"It was him that got you, wasn't it?"

Or she could be just as acute as ever.

"Gella," I begin to say, hoping to excuse the slowness of my speech on weariness.

"Don't say it." A roll of her shoulder, and she is yanking me along like an oversized sack of grain. "You don't need to. I'll tell Dopha t' get you off any duties until you're feeling better."

"But -- "

"Quiet."

Each of my protests has escalated Gella's movements until we are both at a brisk walk. More accurately, it is the Lustrum who is keeping such a pace; I am unable to do much more than attempt to lean on her and not stumble too much.

"Here you are," she announces once my door comes in sight. Still disoriented from how quickly she has attempted to drag me, I can only give a slight nod of gratitude. The woman's body language is of barely contained anger that I do not know how to address at this moment; her jaw is firmly set, and she does not look directly at me.

In that, Gella reminds me of Paine.

I decide to think of something other than memories. The preservation of my life is an excellent start.

Having no other idea of what to do with me, Gella props me in the doorway while she jiggles the doorlatch open. A groaning of the door indicates her success. "There y' go. Don't worry about the crates neither. I'll handle that."

"Gella?"

The Lustrum is already halfway down the hall when my voice stops her. All that pent-up emotion is bearing her as aggressive as a bull. She turns her head; judging from her expression, the woman must have expected to see me collapsed on the floor again. "Neh?"

"Thank you."

Two words soften her innate scowl. Then it returns in full force. "You get in, lie down. I'll go haul Shelinda out of bed if I have to." The Lustrum's mouth purses in vexation at what must be her own thoughts; the words she says next are nothing other than firm. "Rest yourself, Baralai. Priests be damned, we've got care of you."


	5. Chapter 5

The air in my quarters is cool from a day spent untouched by visitors. It hangs quiet; everything is dark, drapes drawn closed, and I step inside this haven with gratitude. My room smells like the spice satchels tucked into the drawers, and of my own nightmares.

Outside, the guards pace on their ramparts. I can either pull back the curtains and watch their silhouettes criss-cross the lights, or I can choose for a single night to pretend they do not exist.

I am not sure why I felt compelled to thank Gella like that. Politeness is one excuse. But Gella cares little for unnecessary words; if I wanted to play on her sympathies, I should not have needed to hail down the hall and thank her. Did I feel gratitude? Yes, but that didn't mean I was required to voice it. So why?

The image of Dopha flickers past my thoughts, suspended eternally with white snow and dead flowers. A lifesaver, he called me. How ironic.

It is cruelty that has me leading the Lustrum on. They are already conscripts to the fates that the priests have lined up for them, plots built around their physical and mental measurements like undertakers eager for the coffins. I can't fool myself into thinking that I intend to save anyone. If it looks as if I have to sacrifice even one of them, I must be prepared if I wish to succeed.

Is this how Nooj felt? Did he rationalize these decisions in the same way, the same words?

Debating endless questions will only leave me with empty hands. That, and I am tired.

I stumble by habit's path over to sit on the bed, and then push myself back to standing when I remember there is melting snow all over my clothes. My sigh is swallowed by the darkness. Lying down to sleep exactly as I am would be a blessed relief. For one thing, I wouldn't have to wake entangled in my own sheets.

But the cold of winter's death is well-worked into the threads of my robes, and as exhausted as I may be, I know from experience that trying to sleep in these monstrosities is a losing proposition. They chafe. Difficult as they may be to undo, I know I will be relieved to have them off.

As I work dutifully with clothing lacings in the dimness of my room, my mind returns to mysteries. How could Trema have known about my theft? Did he count the spheres beforehand? Unlikely. The founder would have had to arrive many hours before I did in order to organize them all and repack the crates before I appeared. Was he watching from a secluded section of the room? No, he could not have; there are no places to conceal one's self in the hall, and I saw him enter with the others.

Did he hear that there would be a red sphere from Mushroom Rock, and was waiting for it?

How did he know exactly where I had hidden it upon myself?

A dull clunk hits my door, exchanged for an even more muffled impact. It sounds as if I either have inventive dogs trying to throw themselves bodily against the wood, or someone is unable to knock properly and so is forced to try to hip-check a greeting pattern. The latter is confirmed; a human's voice rises in a frustrated wheedle just seconds after the last thump.

"Baralai? Do you... hey, can you let me in?"

It is Shelinda. Rising from my bed, I toss aside the last of the robes and pad towards the entry, silent in bare feet. The timing could be better; the temperatures are frigid while I am wearing only snow-soaked pants.

A momentary fumble for the latch in the dark and I have it in my grip. Then I hesitate. Visions of the Lustrum tumbling in upon me are all too vivid; after another second, I decide that if Shelinda is leaning against the wood, it would do me best to step away quickly while I open it.

"Sorry I'm late," Shelinda chimes brightly as the door swings in, lifting the burden of her tray in offering. I peer around the frame, squinting against the blob she creates. Her formal robes are a blotch of poisonous green in the glow of the hallway lights. "At least that means the tea leaves have had plenty of time to steep. I was so worn out from trying to get those wreaths up! Can you believe how many there were? I thought I'd be working for hours!"

I wonder if Dopha told her who volunteered her name for duty.

Then I wonder if I should avoid drinking the tea.

The air from the hallway is chill, and as it rushes in, I take a step back from where I have been clinging to the door. My pants have become frigid around the shin region where snow had seeped in past the outer robes. I will have to find a way to put on new ones. Maybe while Shelinda is looking the other way.

"But everything got done just in time," Shelinda continues to chatter, even as she arranges the weight in her hands, prepares to embark into the room. "Whew, did I ever want to take a break after that! There were so many decorations to get ready for the elders. Dopha and I had to do all the gateways even up to -- oh my."

The continuous rattle of her words dies off so quickly that the illusion of her conversation keeps going without her to direct it. Eventually I realize Shelinda is no longer actually speaking. I wonder what has surprised her, and then realize she is staring at my stomach.

I follow her gaze down. There is nothing particularly odd about my navel. The drawstring of my pants is still tied shut. I am about to ask her directly what is bothering her when the realization hits me; to an acolyte accustomed to the excess of Yevon's robes, I must appear nearly naked.

Oops.

My own modesty was left behind at Bikanel. I remember being just as shy once long ago, and then I had to room with Gippal.

"Just wet clothes," I explain for Shelinda's benefit, moving aside to further invite her in. Once she has taken a single hesitant step, she halts, juggling the weight of the tea and dishes. Since there is a covered platter, I assume Gella had also managed to roust a cook to recover parts of the evening meal for me. That or she went down there on her own, ordered Shelinda along.

The steam sneaking out from the tureen smells like soup. If I believed in higher powers, I might ask them to bless Gella for having good taste.

"It's so dark in here..." The tray shuffles itself in Shelinda's hands as she leans it into her hip. Looks into the room, then at me, biting her lip in worry. "You... you weren't asleep, were you?"

I shake my head. Another step back, meant to coax the Lustrum in, and then I turn to hunt out one of the lamps. A touch of my hand coaxes one of the stands on, a screen-shuttered glass that has wavy outlines embedded in its paper cover. Texture for variation, the artists might have originally thought, but in practice the effect causes the room to undulate. Drinking alcoholic beverages not recommended while you have it on, but I have never put this to the test.

The reason I keep the irregular decoration is because the turquoise luminescence it broadcasts reminds me of the ocean. I turn it on at times and believe I am underwater, deep in the currents like a blitz-trained diver, where there is nothing of the sun to strike me.

The addition of light to the room seems to encourage Shelinda. Fiends that may have lurked in the corners or beneath my bed disappear under the influence of waterglow. She is the type of person who prefers being able to witness her surroundings before daring ahead; I wonder if this is a trait only newly acquired after the early chaos of the Calm, or if she has always been afraid of the dark.

Learned behaviors guide her even now. Faced with my belly to menace her, Shelinda resorts to basic forms of nurture. "Drink up," the Lustrum leads off with first, setting down the tray on the small corner table next to the lamp. Then she bustles towards the dead logs of my hearth, folding her skirts neatly beneath her legs when she kneels to search for tinder there. "Let me build you up a fire."

Heat would be a welcome addition. I gravitate towards the smell of food in the meantime. Uncovering the dish releases a minor explosion of steam that billows up in a meat-flavored cloud. I welcome it by inhaling deeply. Insulating my hands with the napkin provided, I scoop the bowl up and cradle it in my palms.

While Shelinda handles bundles of twigs into the fireplace, I sit down beside her, cross-legged. One eye remains on the Lustrum during her task; the other deals with not spilling my dinner all over myself. The dish goes on my leg. Its warmth radiates through the napkin-cloth and into my thigh, and eventually I move it to keep from burning myself.

We sit like this for a time. Shelinda does not speak up, and I wonder if I have begun to acquire the reputation of being a quiet man, whose silences are best unbroken.

When I glance up to look at her, I notice she has been staring at me again.

The first time, she looks down in embarrassment for her lack of tact. The second time I catch her, Shelinda does not lower her eyes, but continues to regard me in the crackling light of the fire.

I do not know how much Gella told her.

Shelinda makes the first move. The stalemate is reversed. "What is that?"

At first my mind jump to the priests, Gella's own suspicions ringing in my head like a crime list being recited. Then Shelinda lifts finger to point it at me. Once more I glance down, able only to guess at what she means by searching for what she avoids speaking of directly.

Stomach muscles? No. I trace the path of her finger back and realize that what the Lustrum is singling out is the reddened scar upon my chest. The spot has not fully healed from an angry flush of flesh attempting to repair itself. Three months, and I have not yet accepted it as part of my body, not enough to remember it as a part of my being.

Now and forever.

In an instant, I know that Shelinda has not seen intensive combat. Not first-hand. Not closely enough to study the points of impact and judge how much blood was an acceptable warning, and how much meant death. "This wound came from a machina," I explain. Unconsciously I reach up to touch the spot. The scar tissue has not fully numbed to my fingers, still raw and pink from lingering blood vessels; I rub my fingers over the thickened flesh and can feel discomfort. Tingles. "The... bullet passed through."

"Who?" Shelinda asks before she realizes the tactlessness of her question. Fiends could not pull a trigger. That meant it must have been a person, and the scar is clearly recent. She claps an apologetic palm over her lips, adds a second hand for good measure as if the doubled layer of flesh would insulate her mouth from blame.

I answer anyway. "I... was betrayed." At first I think to say more, start to continue, but my voice has disappeared.

Shelinda fills in the details for herself. "The Guado," she murmurs, reverent as if handed the secrets of Bahamut on a golden scroll. By next week, I am sure that the Lustrum will be full of rumors. Yes, the Guado must have shot me. This is why I do not like to speak of Seymour in mixed company. The Guado shot me, and so I am proven as much a victim as the rest of Bevelle, my life placed in danger by a maester's manipulations.

The harm has been done. Let the Lustrum think what they will. If I am lucky, they will continue to write an entire epic tale for me to have lived, Baralai the Brave, Baralai the Daring. I can join Nooj the Undying. We are both liars.

My hand stops its fretting over the wound and covers the spot. Such is my apology of shame.

Having a weakness exposed on my part, I choose to redirect the conversation. Verbal diversions can handle Shelinda quite well.

The fire hums away in the stonework, spreading crimson petals across the room, fighting with the lamporb blue. "You sound as if you expect me to imprison you for seeing this." My voice falsifies a pleasant neutrality. "What's bothering you so badly that you have to think that?" Asking this while my spoon scrapes along the bottom of my bowl, and I fish out a chunk of meat while I speak as if the concept and my dinner were of equal unimportance.

When I glance up over my next mouthful, I witness a retaliation victory for my side. Fear matched with discomfort is burrowing its twinned way across Shelinda's face. It seems I have found a topic that relates to why she started questioning me in turn.

She does not have the willpower to win against me. Only mere seconds pass, the logs snapping and degrading themselves in the fireplace. "Somasil..." she starts, pauses, and then bends to unspoken pressure as surely as if beneath the weight of water. "He says you're here to spy on us."

"Somasil?" Instantly I wonder what I have done to earn that man's ire. Then I remember that anyone who appears overfriendly with Gella must seem suspicious.

I will have to single him out later.

Then I remind myself that I have no idea when such a time could be, or even if I have days left to count on.

"Somasil is only trying to look out for something he knows he can't protect." My stomach has decided it is full. At the least, the idea of chewing anything just now is most assuredly unappealing. Instead I fill my mouth with words, ones so quiet that the firecrackle swallows the life from them even while I shape the sounds. "Because he knows he can't do anything about the real threat, he wants to look for handholds that might help him get there. Something that gives him at least the illusion that he can change fate."

As if she were a child attempting to ward off a chill no longer in this room, Shelinda changes position; she draws her knees up against her chest, wrapping her arms around them. "When you say it like that... you make it sound so futile."

Perhaps it was me that was too cold.

"Maybe I'm wrong." Even though it falls back from my claim on Somasil's position, I shake my head. Laugh, dismiss my own conclusions. "I could tell you not to believe him, but how could you trust me either?"

This does not help Shelinda's crisis of faith. She bites her lip. "I'm not sure. You're an important man, Baralai. I mean, I don't know everything, but you're definitely a part of what goes on around here. We can all see it. You... you're already more like a priest than we are."

I say nothing.

I do not know what to say.

Shelinda continues. Her fingers twine themselves in her skirts, pulling at the cloth as if they could extract the answers out of linen. "And the priests don't tell us anything. Just orders. As far as I can see... even though Sin's gone, nothing's really changed. So I guess... I mean, I don't mean that I don't like you, Baralai, but I just don't know what's going on a lot of the time."

The tang of bitter leaves finally reaches my nose. They have been left in the pot by accident all this time. We both forgot to take them out.

"Is that so wrong of us? To not be sure?"

The tea will be too strong to drink.

"How are we supposed to know who to look to for direction, when no one seems like they're honest with us?"

Lowering my soup bowl to the ground with a muted clink, I tilt my head back and breathe in air that smells of ash and tea, in a room swimming with blue and red. Water meets fire, and I am reminded suddenly of just how great the forces are that I seek to dabble with. Such vast beasts, these, that wrestle with innumerable lives.

How tiny I am by comparison. Just a chip of bark that can be swept away on the nearest wave, and the sea to never pause in its infinite motions.

Here I am, just a single person. Alone.

"Shelinda..."

Flames wind themselves into dying stories on the logs. Watching them is better than looking at the face of a girl who could have had the same expression as I might have, once, long ago; once when I believed that there might one day be a reality behind all the lies I knew existed.

"Why do you work for Yevon anyway?" It may the Lustrum I am speaking to, but I wonder if I mean to direct the words at myself. "Is there something important to you, something you would stay here for because you want to protect it?"

She seems startled by my sudden turn in questioning. Her back straightens. Spine, tenses, and then she decides that I am not interrogating her so that I can gather more information on targets. "I just want to make a difference. I thought I could do that in Yevon. That... that's all."

A difference? Skepticism mutes itself across my features. Change Yevon? Change all of Bevelle?

Impossible.

Shadows help hide my expression as I lower my face. "I'm sorry, Shelinda. But you can't do that here." Pausing long enough to debate my next statement, I forge ahead regardless. "If that's what you really want to do with your life... it would be best if you went somewhere else."

Such a verdict is not one she had wanted to hear. Shelinda's head turns away, snaps to the fire as if I had struck her. The tassels on her ornamental hat twiddle themselves with the force of her motion; so much decoration that serves no purpose save marking the herd of Bevelle so they cannot blend in with the average crowd.

"I... I don't know if I can do that, Baralai. What would I do somewhere else?"

Shelinda's face is too unguarded. In an instant, I understand that she has seen enough of Yevon to be wary, but guile is not innate to her mind. The priests cannot understand it, keep her in the Lustrum because their minds do not wrap around the idea of someone whose veins do not run thick with manipulations.

All the more reason to push her free of this nest of vipers. "That decision is something you're going to have to figure out for yourself. What's stopping you?"

It is Shelinda's turn to be silent. The warring lights split her face in two; one half is bathed with the fire's warmth and the other, the coolness of ocean night. Either the heat or my words have caused a flush to blemish high in her cheeks.

There is no way I can rewind time and erase what I have said. I don't even know if it will have any effect. Shelinda has leaned upon Bevelle all this time so the uncertainties in her life would answered; without someone telling her where the next step in the path is located, she falters to a halt. Shelinda knows this world is vast enough to swallow her, even if she does not consciously realize it.

It is a cruel reward for her questions, what I have said. Her voice sinks through my mind like a bird with a broken wing that tries with failing strength to descend with grace. Is that so wrong? To not know what to trust?

Is it such a terrible thing, to need to have someone else to look up to?

What's stopping me from leaving this place?

There are reasons I am leashed to Bevelle. I have to know the truth about the Den of Woe. I have to know because I want to find an answer to the question that almost killed my Team -- once at the hands of the instructors, once again from our very own captain. It is important for me to find these answers.

I think.

Bells rumble the stones beneath us, like the breathing of a giant Aeon. Priests used to warn that it was the sighing of Bahamut that would shake the temple so. No longer. Bahamut is gone, Sin is extinguished, the chimes are machina-rung, and now it is ourselves we must watch for when we are looking for monsters.

Or saviors.

The hour is late. I can feel it in every inch of my body, and the toll of the bells extends well past my desire to tally.

Shelinda excuses herself to me with only a murmur, collecting the bowl and untouched tea. I let her go just as easily. If there is further harm I can do to her verbally, I do not have the heart for it at this time, and no inspiration nips me to act.

When the Lustrum has gone, I roll over onto my stomach, and let my fingers walk themselves in measurement down the hearthstones. There. Five across and three to the side, and I have found the stone that moves.

I discovered the loose slate shortly after I moved into my room. Originally I had been going through the chamber inch by inch to discover what might have been concealed here by former occupants. Then I did it again just in case the priests had squirreled away unpleasant surprises intended to trap me. Like the barracks at Bikanel, there were no signs of the tenants who might have dwelled here before, no hint of other lives still lingering in the corners. When I leave this room, I am sure that there will be those who will erase me too.

It was in my careful search that I came across the weakened stone in the mortar of the fireplace. I pried it up and dug further in the crumbling space, using that rock to chip out enough room that I could safely fit both my fists inside with enough room for padding. Luckily, Bevelle is a great believer in providing thick floors between the levels; I did not have to fear hitting the bedrock of someone else's ceiling in my work.

And then I hid the sphere from the Crimson Squad there.

Putting it beneath the mattress, or the bed, or even in a drawer or closet would be too obvious. I had come across this one by the barest of chances, snatched it out of a shipment before it had been tallied. It was far too precious to risk being lost.

My fingers form the cradle for the sphere as it rests upon the tips as a gem suspended on jeweler's prongs. The doubled lights rolling through it are refracted a hundred times, like a prism of souls; the ripples swell over my fingers, the ceiling, the walls. I watched the sphere only once. Then I turned it off halfway through.

Some experiences that are pleasant when you first have them only become painful when you are exposed a second time.

Fire-warmth washes over me, and the exhaustion of the day pulls itself heavy in my bones. The soup filling my stomach does not help to keep me awake. My pants are drying out thanks to the proximity of the heat; there is less of a danger of stray sparks now that the logs are down to mere embers.

All my care in hiding this sphere would be useless if I fall asleep exposed like this. Too tired to keep holding the orb in the air, I lower it onto my chest and then from there, tuck it into my hand as I roll on my side.

Drowsiness crawls in like an errant murderer. I should get up and move to the bed. I should at least find a blanket.

_"I can't explain why, but I felt.. so sad."_

I should do anything except fall asleep right here on the floor.

Gippal's voice matches my own distant memories. He whispers into my ear as rivers of fire whimper through the logs, themselves fading into nothingness. _"It was like .. somebody's raw emotions just came out of nowhere and hijacked my brain."_

And by that, I know that I am already dreaming.


	6. Chapter 6

_It is snowing sand. The grit is cold as ice, I know, but when it touches my skin I sense only faint prickles. Discomfort is a level long passed. I am a creature become of snow itself, and so I feel nothing._

_"Gonna die like that."_

_For an instant, I think that the speaker means that the sand that surrounds me will kill by contact. It pours down in endless waves of gold, glittering as it tumbles grain-by-grain through the air. The innards of an hourglass would be lucky to have such grace as this._

_How could something so beautiful destroy me?_

_I turn my head away from the haze of hypnosis; sand is all around me, hissing and humming, but I search for the source of the comment._

_Gippal is standing just a short distance away from me. This makes perfect sense in a world of hourglass blood, where I cannot see the sky clearly, and yet I can inhale dirt-mist without a qualm. The sandflakes are whispering around us both in eternal descent. Embers might crackle together in similar conspiracy when a fire has burned down low enough to hide them._

_He sees me looking at him and grins back. I am lucky to not be in his blind spot._

_"Get so cold, you get warm before you die 'cuz you just don't feel it anymore." Calloused fingers fiddle in the air. The gesture is one I am unfamiliar with; Al Bhed body language has not been a tongue I have been exposed to for the last few months. "That's what happens when you're stuck in snow, yeah?"_

_"That's right," I admit, the realization warning me with a sigh all its own. "Or so they say. Have you ever had that happen to you?"_

_"What do I look like," Gippal snorts. "A Ronso? Mr. Big, Blue and Furry romping about on the slopes of Gagazet? Gimme a horn, I'm **gone**." The blonde brings up a hand to his brow, flicking out his fingers for emphasis. His arm crooks like the neck of a swan. "I've never seen snow in my **life**, man. 'Cept in spheres."_

_The salute reminds me of Ixion. A very blonde, very swaggering Ixion, one that jangles rein-bells when he walks, and rings brass hoofbeats on the floor of his temple. Djose must be wondering at the lack of Fayth in their Chamber right about now._

_Then I remember that the Aeons are all dead._

_"Gippal," I begin, "are you -- "_

_"Thought about getting Rikku something while I was out on the move," the Al Bhed is saying, speaking over my interrupted question as if he heard it not at all. He reaches down to scratch at his ankle where the sock has bunched up in his boot. "Turns out, she's not here anymore. Got killed when Home got attacked." The single-eyed smile turns to me, lopsided. "Can you just **believe** that?"_

_With that, I understand why it is fitting for Gippal to play at resemblance of an Aeon deceased. He must have been caught in the fighting as well._

_"Gippal -- " I try again._

_"Guess I'm gonna have to wait to see everyone. Maybe hold a huge party for it, catch up on old times. It'd be nice to see Buddy n' Brother again, except when they drink the place dry." Notes clang dissonant when Gippal hooks his thumbs into his waistband. His arms are decorated with woven bracelets, miniature bells clustering at his wrists like migrant locusts. Yevon's temple script is stamped on the metal of every single one._

_I read the prayers of a liar's religion twined around Gippal's muscles._

_"When we can get everyone together, I mean. No rush. You going to show up for it, Baralai?"_

_My eyes must be playing tricks on me. Every time I get a good look at the Al Bhed through the sandflakes, Gippal seems to be wearing more and more reins. Temple chimes weigh on his body. Even though I squint, the blonde refuses to come fully into focus. He blends into the shimmering air so well that it is a wonder I can see him at all, distinguish his hair from the color of the dunes._

_I reach out towards him. My palm, upwards, catches the grains pouring down and begins a miniature desert kept within the scale of my hand._

_Arrested by this wonder, I stare at the world slipping out between the cracks of my fingers._

_"I said, you coming, Baralai?"_

_In doing so, I forget about Gippal._

_"Hey, what're you doing over there, man?"_

_Now the sand has begun to pile on my arm. It seeps in a silt-river down my sleeve. I didn't notice it, am not sure how I missed the realization. Fascination keeps me transfixed._

_By the time that my elbow is being devoured, I remember that I should reply to the Al Bhed. Ignoring him is only an accident. "I'm just..." I start, before the smell of fresh dirt suddenly invades my nose._

_The storm terminates. A rush of wind billows like a tsunami fit to split the sky; the flake storm divides itself around us and is banished beneath invisible rage. Instinctively, I throw my arms up to shield my face. Grit stings my exposed skin, but I inhale no sand, find no specks invading my lungs._

_Gippal has not moved to protect himself. The bells now attached to every inch of his clothing jangle in inanimate protest as the gusts toll them, ringing their knells out in a disorganized clatter. The Al Bhed is watching me, looking at me, face empty of his usual jubilance._

_The sky clears above us both, and I realize we are standing in Bikanel._

_"I'm..."_

_My voice is a paltry pup left to whimper in the desert, abandoned to waste away from exposure with no one there to mourn. Horizon lines bend into curves around us. Distances flex; the endless blue swath of the sky mates with the gold of the land in a circle too vast to measure._

_Gunfire splays its ricochet call; I cannot tell the direction where the fighting is coming from. Soil changes itself on the breeze to the crisp stink of machina powder. We are in Bikanel. We only thought we escaped its trap._

_Gippal is staring. His single eye holds no emotion as he traps me beneath its Al Bhed swirls._

_"I'm..."_

Unable to breathe.

I wake, and my face is covered with a shroud.

First reactions are to freeze; reality dips as I struggle to move through the stickiness of dreams to full alertness. The fabric against my skin is dark. Plain. It lacks the brash embroidery of Yevon's script; by this, I understand I am not swathed inside a Sending cloth.

I am not dead.

Desperate to be free of this burden, I reach up and claw the blanket away. Sitting up in the same motion is an exercise in stiffness; all my muscles protest from being forced to sleep on the floor.

As I struggle to get up, a sore pang lances through one of my wrists. I look down. My hand is crooked; all through the night, I have been cradling the Crimson Sphere protectively against my chest. The surface is still warm inside my palm. The sphere has absorbed my body heat all through the winter night.

"Awake at last, are you?"

Instinct causes my hand to clench around the sphere, tighten it against myself lest someone snatch it and the memories it holds away. It hurts to move so suddenly. I ignore the ache and jerk my head to the side, looking for the danger of an intruder.

Gella is watching me from where she is sitting on the bed. Her gaze is sympathetic, in the country-hard way of the stoic.

"Bad dreams?" she asks, and in the confusion of broken sleep, I think her voice is made of burlap. Rough, rougher than the blanket placed over me to keep me warm, but welcome.

I manage a nod.

"Y' get 'em." With that, Gella pushes herself up off the bed, a palm slapping out the imprint that her weight left behind. "I know. Now get y'self up. I brought you breakfast. Better eat, if you want to get your strength back enough to live."


	7. Chapter 7

Gella brought me coffee. Gella brought me chunks of dried fruit, bread slathered with rich butter, and at this point I would like to be a priest if only to declare her holy.

"Didn't want t' move you," she explains when I lever myself to my feet and look down at the blanket remains on the floor. That's one way to avoid waking up tangled in the covers. I wonder how much colder I would have been if she had not snuck in during the night.

Then I find myself bitter when I realize that the chill would have woken me, and then I would have had time to hide the sphere with no one coming in to discover me at all.

Sourness at Gella's interference mixes with the smells of breakfast. I lower the sphere as carefully as I can from my chest, transforming the gesture into a simple grab for the blanket. Two fingers hook the fabric and then a turn of my wrist has the orb concealed. All this while I fumble my other hand through my bangs, brushing them aside with a sleeper's drowsy mumbles as musical counterpoint.

I have no tactful means of replacing the sphere in its hiding place so long as Gella remains in the room. She bests me here, unexpectedly; turning herself away as I assemble myself from the hearth, the Lustrum walks to the meal tray and begins to pour two cups worth. Coffee stains the air. The bread is fresh -- no heel-ends stale and crumbling here. Gella must be friends with one of the temple bakers.

If the situation were reversed, I do not think that I would have come to her. That alone should make me grateful.

Still, I do not trust her. There is no ill offense in myself when I admit inwardly that I do not wish to restore the sphere to its stone chamber so long as Gella remains here. I am hungry, and hence can let the matter rest by simply dropping the blanket on the bed and letting the sphere hide underneath.

Gella handles my shirtlessness with far greater ease than Shelinda; she does not even comment once. I pull a loose tunic out from my closet and tug it on to erase the matter.

We perform within the bounds of our own reservations over the altar of thick-handled ceramic mugs and pale plates. Gella is experienced with a particular form of morning. It is observed in silence, with swallows of hot drink to wash down any lumps of bread that might stick within our throats. We sit together and acknowledge one another only in quiet requests for the butter knife.

Eventually, Gella herself is the one to break ritual. "Dopha says he'll be hearing you f'r any duties down at breakfast. Jam," she adds, holding out splayed fingers as she waits for me to give her the shallow pot.

Gella is discontent. I know this because her voice is as thick as porridge, sullen with resentment against the same priests who would order her to enunciate clearly.

"Thank you," I remark. It is only when I have voiced those two words that I realize it is the first sign of gratitude I have given to her all morning for what she has done. That is sloppy behavior on my part. It implies that I am angry with her for walking in on my room unannounced during the night, for covering me while I slept.

Which is, quite possibly, true.

I hunt for the reason inside me. Annoyance? Surprising, but undeniable. I am angry that she has extended grace to me in a way I could not predict beforehand. The machinery of ploys set inside Bevelle is delicate enough that a single accident can tip the balances into disaster.

That accident is the sphere. Gella cannot have missed it. While it is not forbidden for acolytes to own personal records, the truth remains that I held it to me even when I was too weary to return to my bed from the hearthstones.

There is memory that I cling to when I am weak, and she has seen me do so. That memory is engraved inside the sphere. Wherever I took it from had to have been within my own room. We both knew I was too exhausted to journey far for such an object, so the place it was hidden must be within a reasonable radius, one Dopha could calculate in the seconds it took us to pass the cream.

Does curiosity now possess her? Will it encourage her to seek the record out and play it? Perhaps not ordinarily; Gella is stalwart enough in character to find her loyalty with those she perceives as her fellows. For now, her enemy is the priests. We are all in common agreement.

But what if such a tidbit of information was the price of her own freedom from her priest?

Or Somasil's?

Danger hides inside the guise of even honest friendship; this, I learned at high cost from the Squad, and I would be a fool to throw away such a lesson now. Gratitude cannot distract me. I dare not let it.

Unsure of what to do to tame such an emotion, I fill my mouth with bread.

The Lustrum have worked themselves into my life despite my best efforts to maintain a distance born of falsified mystery. Such was inevitable. In doing favors for them, I encouraged them to seek to repay such efforts. Without guiding requests on my part to distinguish my own needs, the Lustrum have turned to a roundabout creativity, fumbling for chinks of my humanity.

I knew it. I knew what they were doing, what they would do, and yet I allowed them close anyway. I excused it to myself as requiring their trust so that I could ensure they would not be threats. Friendship is a trap, one that almost brought my death along with that of Paine and Gippal, and yet I have let myself be surrounded by companions a second time.

It is that or I appear just as cold as any priest. Just as dangerous.

What a bitter circumstance I have come to.

Gella forgives me. Or at least she forgives my renewed silence, grunting back her own assurance of my shortened thanks. Food revives the sluggishness of my blood and the sweetness of the jam mixes with coffee-sugars in my mouth to leave me running my tongue across my teeth. There may be no clean way out of the situation I have trapped myself in a second time, but at least I can face it with a full stomach.

Between her and Shelinda, I have become a master at concluding my meals with complete awkwardness.

When a knock comes at the door, I am startled enough at this destruction of silence that I catch myself exchanging a glance with Gella. At this rate of visitors, it is surprising that I have not either changed the locks on my quarters, or simply left the door open.

Another rap, impatient, hasty knuckles beating a martial tattoo. I set down my chunk of bread and lick off the jam on my fingers. The damp is wiped off on my pants. I grip the handle of the door and yank it open without preamble; any assassins or other troublemakers might as well sit down for a slice of toast themselves before going about the rest of their business.

Upon seeing the pair of guards, I instantly recall that sentiment.

"You are the Lustrum Baralai, correct?" The figure leading is a man gruff with age and snow, whose beard is peppered with pipe ash. Platelets of standard armor are buckled around his chest and shoulders, touched with frost from morning patrol, ice that has formed from stepping between warmer guardhouses and the outer walkways. He must have been sneaking his pipe while still on watch.

This lapse of standards does not extend to me. The guard waits for my hesitant nod before continuing to recite his duty. "I have been ordered to inform you that you have been summoned by lord Trema."

The man is as imperious as humanly possible. He knows he is not the one in trouble. I am. Satisfaction at seeing another being damned turns him smug. I briefly entertain the image of Gella hurling toast at him, and then give my reply as mildly as possible.

"Please tell him that I will be there immediately."

"Tell him yourself, Lustrum." Assuming that there is no risk in inciting my ire, the guard is willfully insolent. "He said he expected you before the tenth hour."

The tenth hour? My gaze jumps to the windows before I remind myself that the curtains are drawn. Gella is my timepiece. I look at her, take in the way her eyes have widened in her intractable face, and I realize that I may not have time for that wash-up after all.

After a nod, I replace the door closed and lean against it. Breathe, look for the nearest clock, and decide that I will do better to hurry now and find my predestined delay once I am already running for the lifts.

Gella is more definitive about reactions. "Get yourself up there." Her order comes punctuated by the dull thud of her mug slamming down on the table, the rest of the coffee thrown down her throat in one gulp. Better hot liquid in a rush than tepid when you have time to savor the tastelessness. "One last thing."

"Yes?"

Long pauses are not characteristic of the Lustrum. She indulges in one anyway, speaks without her usual forthrightness. "I want you to know that you're not alone."

These are not the words I want to hear. They turn the morning meal to stone inside me, make it heavy and thick enough to kill.

"Gella -- "

"Baralai," she says again, and her invocation of my name is stronger than mine of hers. It is fierce enough to still my tongue. The air dries my half-parted lips; looking at the Lustrum and the way she narrows her eyes with self-contained frustration, I am reminded that there are more betrayals than simply my own in this temple.

"I don't... don' know what t' do about it," she continues, struggling between the formality that has been forced upon her and her own village heritage. It shows in her face. Her cheek contorts hard against the bones; Gella grimaces, fighting to get the words out. "Milk-water and _spit_, Baralai. You're fancier than I am. So I don't know how I need t' say it for you t' hear right, but y'think y're on your own here, turn around in your damned stall n' see which way the door swings."

At first I do not know if Gella means for me to be incited to fight. If so, the reaction elicited is quite different; I turn my face away, but only to prevent myself from destroying the Lustrum's own crutch of belief. Alone or not, friends or not, it does not matter. It cannot.

"So y've got a priest bullying you. If I knew how to slap-past 'em down, I would." Gella is fully out of her practiced league. This is no sparring field; there is no enemy to crack the skull of with a staff. "But I can't fix it. I don't know how. Not yet, not just me. Not..."

She trails off there, fighting herself through the country-curses.

"Gella."

This time when I say her name, she is the one who falls silent.

"Listen to me." If I can infect my voice with enough muted fervor, perhaps I can convince myself as well. "I don't know how to fix any of this either. There's corruption in the temple that's dated back ever since it was made." Ever since the first of the lies of Sin, the initial act of duplicity that was still hotly debated by Yevon priests. "But stay with me," I add, and my voice is more confident than I have ever felt, "and I'll find a way. We're the acolytes of New Yevon. Eventually, we'll be the priests and maesters. It's up to us to make that name into something different than what has gone before."

I cannot tell by her expression if she believes me or not. Nor can I plead to her to have faith in me. Not when I do not have it in myself; especially not when I do not know if I say these words only to draw Gella into greater confidence, lest she be tempted to sell me out to another who offers her absolution first.

It seems that she is equally wary. "Don't you let us down either, Baralai." Her jawline flexes while she studies me; I can only imagine what she must be thinking. "Words are empty piss-pots. We both know that just by being here."

To hesitate is to imply my lie. I do not pause. "I won't."

Just like that, I am committed.

"Then stay yourself alive first." Hope and Gella are strangers to one another, so the Lustrum resorts to practicality. The jam knife goes on the stacked plates with a clatter. "You've got less than an hour. Wash up. Dopha and I can share out any work'll come your direction.

It is easier to say the words this time. "Thank you." Even then, the phrase feels stilted. I tack on more. "I wish you luck."

Reward for this benediction is a snort. "Give none of your luck to me. If it's Trema's eye you've caught, you'll need all of it you can keep." The shells of breakfast properly collected, Gella lifts the entire tray in both hands. "You come back to us. Don't let the Founder mess you none."

"Yes," I nod, not paying much attention as I check my tunic to see how wrinkled it is or if I will have to change it, "I'll come back fine -- "

"Because if you don't, Baralai," the woman continues, as bluntly indifferent as if I had never spoken at all, "and you decide it's better t' give in to him, you really are going to be alone."

A healthy number of seconds march forward. They file in single order to the door and exit, unheeded by us both.

I think I have just been threatened.

This time, if our situations were reversed, I would have done exactly the same thing.


	8. Chapter 8

My hair has dried from an impromptu dunking by the time I best the tower to the Founder's quarters. In accordance to Yevon rank, the chambers are chosen for the higher ranks are those rooms closest to the sky; not from any solid belief that priests were elevated spiritually, I've always suspected, but because you can keep better tabs of other people's affairs from such a spy-point.

Regardless of the actual reason, the haste of my journey leaves me with robes half-tied and the collar of my shirt sticking to the back of my neck. I take the last few steps to the uppermost walkway while fumbling the buttons of my sleeves and having to redo them twice.

The view from the heights reveals most of the temple spread out like a child's construction toy. From here, Bevelle becomes a religion made of sticks. Twigs, color glass, and paper dolls positioned at strategic intervals. Move the soldiers as suits your fancy. Ring the temple bells by a trigger to the side that only you can see, and claim it is an Aeon's snore.

Side-benefits of so many stairs to climb include the fact that anyone foolish enough to seek you out will arrive panting, leaning on the walls to catch their breath from the long journey. The lift from the Highbridge dropped me only at the entrance to the tower that Trema has closeted himself in. By the time I arrive at the top, my chest heaving against the thin air, I already know I am late. Five minutes will kill me none the faster if I take advantage to rest first.

A fleeting desire for power touches me again while I lean on the balcony. My hands work to put my clothes into proper order. That makes it twice now this morn that I have wished for strength. In this instance, I admit that revenge upon the guard who delayed his message to me would be a very sweet act indeed. At the least, I might look more presentable for my execution than with my shirt improperly tucked into my pants.

Rather than entertain vengeance on a man whose face I do not even fully remember, I turn to thinking about my visit from Gella.

She is sturdy. This is the first impression called to mind whenever I sort through my conceptions of the Lustrum woman; sturdy, and well-used to enduring what cannot be fought against. Not the type to willingly invest herself in Bevelle's politics at all. Most definitely not the kind of person to let herself become easily flustered over anything.

But then, none of the Lustrum seem to be here of their own free choice. Dopha admitted to me once that his family had enrolled him in the temple because he was better suited to numbers than to hauling on fishing lines. Somasil attends because he wants to protect the one whom he loves; Gella herself says nothing of her own reasons for being here, but I have gathered that she does so for her own family back in her village. Even Shelinda is only pursuing this course because she does not know what to do with herself otherwise.

Is this what we are? New Yevon, a religion based around an empty center, without even an ocean-monster to hold us together? My fingers drum on my cheek as I rest my chin on a hand; if the Lustrum are the generation meant to succeed the current priests, none of us will have any direction for the future save to carry on the dying plots of previous years. We will graduate wrapped snug in silken politics, hatching later like overblown bugs to spin our own plots for acolytes to come.

I told Gella I would help stop this.

_Why?_ Even for a lie of assurance, such a claim is illogical. I owe the Lustrum nothing. My involvement in the temple only concerns seeking information on the Den of Woe.

I am not here to save them. I couldn't even save my own friends. All I am here to do is to stop Nooj.

Somehow.

Below me, patrols change position in geometric lockstep. Gates strain open. A convoy trundles its way through the grit of the courtyards, yellow chocobo-splotches migrating in straight lines across the stones. The air is crisp from winter. It catches the rattling sounds of wooden wheels and bears them up into the sky, past me and into the faint clouds above.

My eyes track the dull colors as various priests congregate around the newly-arrived wagons. The banners trailing from the canvas canopies are colored a pale, waxy green, run through vertically with lines of white and black. Clumps of seed-shells are strung in crossing patterns over the sides of the carts; the practice is meant to ward off smaller fiends, so the superstition goes. Envoys from Larsolia come early, or at least their scout-guard.

Perhaps their appearance will save me from Trema.

I find myself chewing on the tip of my own finger, and take my hand away from my mouth.

Gella is sturdy. That is my first impression, and I do not ignore it. Yet the expression on her face when she spoke to me this morning was of a finely distilled desperation, and for all that she could not communicate it clearly, it must be very real.

There is a power in desperation. I have drunk of it before. It almost killed me in the Squad's final test, but now that emotion is the only strength I have when my resolve begins to flag, and I am tempted to give in to friendship once more.

The Lustrum are too much like my Team. But I do not need people. I will not. Friendship is a trap; it will blind you from the real danger that will one day shoot you in the back. No matter how I might wish for my own comrades, they are scattered and gone. I cannot let others near me. I will not.

If despair is my only ally, should I befriend it? Let it fill my heart and weave into every inch, lest I find my own weakness staring back at me one day from eyes the color of crimson?

I do not know what to do next. And there is no one left to ask.

Gippal, after all, is dead.

Does that mean that Paine is entirely alone now? Will Nooj find her, convince her to work with him? Would it not be for the best if I sought her out -- the two of us could do it. We could help each other. Together.

I could find Paine. We would succeed.

Couldn't we?

These questions gnaw at me. I close my eyes, blot out Bevelle stretching itself like a paid courtesan below. Sounds paint a picture for me in the blackness behind my lids, highlighting the cries of the chocobo as their reins are taken up by stablehands. Proper pomp and circumstance is repeated again and again as the elders of Larsolia disembark and are greeted with fervor intended to make them forget their own dead. Winds rattling flag-cords against poles.

Footsteps moving on the walkway towards me.

I play at unawareness. My eyes remain shuttered; in a moment's time, I have my breathing steady and underneath control. I may have forestalled personal doom by admiring the view, but in dwelling on the turmoil of my thoughts, I quite likely just made everything worse. How late must I be now?

Late enough. Maybe I can blame it on not wanting to intrude until directly summoned. By the same ludicrous reasoning, if I stand still for long enough, Trema might just mistake me for part of the scenery.

"Are you thinking, mm, about making a jump?"

The brittle question slices through my reflection. By the ancient's quaver, I know without having to open my eyes that it is the Founder who stands behind me.

"No. My lord," formality encourages me to add. In the same motion of opening my eyes, I am already turning, already bowing with my face directed to the floor. "Please pardon me for my delay, lord Trema, I was only noting the arrival of the envoy from Lars -- "

"Of course you were." The answer does not satisfy Trema. He knows my lie, watches it squirm across the floor like an albino snake confused in the day's light. "Walk with me, boy."

In the Founder's presence, my arm has begun to ache. The pain pulses in time with my heart; I keep my elbow gingerly to my side despite how it makes the ritual bow of obedience somewhat awkward. There are no guards stationed directly upon Trema's towerheights, but if I pushed him off, I am certain the ones from the Highbridge would see. Even despite the distraction of Larsolia's elders.

Instead, I listen. Falling into step behind the priest keeps my thoughts to themselves for a time; I am not obligated to supply the conversation so long as I am subordinate. Until I know what motivates Trema, the excuse I will conjure for my act of theft must be vague enough to place blame equally on everything and everyone.

The Founder begins once we have rounded a full quarter of the tower, pacing so that the main courtyards are out of sight. "To say that we are in a... mm, a _unique_ situation, that would not be so very far off." His fingers, spotted with age, rub against themselves where he holds them to the small of his back. They remind me of tiny, withered lizards. "You are a bright fellow, young man. You have a future ahead of you, that much is possible. Have you... hm, given much _thought_ to that?"

Trema's words all ring standard, save for the twists which turn them sinister. His verbal tics are obfuscation. Bombarded by his hemming and hawing, I almost miss the actual warnings slipped in as neatly as a thief during dinner to steal the forks.

I am forced to remind myself that Trema is a man who had played the game of priests and won; my continual impatience with the deliberate pace of his words is no doubt encouraged by his own habits. I must best myself if I am to be the victor, master my own impulses. I must, "Yes, sir," come up with much better lines than that.

The very fact that my silence was broken with only two short sounds is enough. I lack a cunning means to change from defense to attack, and now we both know it.

Trema maintains the advantage.

He enjoys it, savors the moment, moves his folded hands in the same rubbing as a pair of nesting doves. "You give me a very... difficult choice, mm, Baralai. It was Baralai, wasn't it?" He does not wait for my acknowledgement before continuing. "Most would have fled Bevelle. But you... you remain. How strange. How, hm... very strange indeed."

I cannot decide if his extended prelude to actual interrogation is meant to distract me, or to lull me into a drone-induced slumber. As of yet, I have no hints to the Founder's inner motives. Agendas are common; he must have at least half a dozen. I need to know them all before I can make my own foray.

He surprises me. The next question is direct, and it cuts through the haze of the faux-wandering conversation; stopping as he speaks, Trema almost has me collide with him before I can stop myself. Even with reflex saving me, I am confronted with something very close to a glare when he turns. The proximity fills my nose with the smell of moth-spray and mold. "I know you think you are strong enough to win against the temples, boy, and get away before they catch you. Sphere theft isn't half of it. What else are you are trying to find here?"

To be asked such a thing is laughable. Trema saw the sphere with his own eyes. Having to clarify further is like being forced to narrate your own execution, conjure stage directions for the theater production detailing your death. The script is predictable. Insert numerous soliloquies from Nooj, a comedic interlude from Gippal. Then exit Paine, stage left.

I have always hated Macalanian epics.

Assaulted by the imbalance of Trema's vocal patterns, my thoughts refuse to organize themselves back into the order I have always coaxed them to dance along. I get as far as, "Maester Kinoc..." before the pang in my arm reminds me of what happened the last time I attempted such an excuse.

Trema has more patience for me today. I assume so because he does not reach out to attack me. Instead he watches me scrape for my own falsehoods, and I attempt to cover up a wince.

One maester's plans against another won me into Seymour's graces. I do not know what Trema's opinion is of either priest; scapegoating the half-Guado has won me numerous saving graces, but there is resistance in me to try such an angle again. Guilt is not a part of this equation. I know that Seymour would have used me just as ruthlessly if he had lived to see the opportunity.

I try again. "The Crimson Squad, sir." Fear of a very primal sort is encouraging my voice to be polite. "I was... acquainted with it. After what Maester Kinoc had done, and then Maester Seymour, I didn't know who to trust. I… I was afraid. Afraid that someone else would find out about the Squad, and then they'd come for me. I wanted to make sure that no one else would try to threaten me with it. That's all. I didn't have any reason other than that. And since the spheres were recorded with me in them... I thought, they were partially mine, weren't they?"

There is enough truth in my words to lend them sincerity. I have used this trick before. Slanted veracity, a grain of fact to layer the pearl of story upon; this won me entrance to the Lustrum, and, I suspect, was also the method that Nooj used with the Squad. Never mind that there is implication within the one Trema viewed to turn me back towards conspiracy against Yevon. This cannot be the end of the interrogation; I have higher of an opinion of the Founder's experience of subterfuge than that.

Trema studies me for a long stretch of heartbeat-seconds, my pulse counting out what might be the few minutes left for my existence. Then he turns away. Relieved from the weight of his narrowed eyes, I draw in a deep breath through my nose and realize he is beginning to once more walk.

We travel in silence for another quarter of the tower, journeying up the slow ascent to the final chambers.

"The Crimson Squad was a failure," Trema states at last, his words ponderous, resuming their former gravity at a pace heavy enough to crush and kill. "New Yevon needs no such reminder of its past to weigh it down further while it remains but a babe in its crib. Those who... mm, those who think that now is the time to take advantage of its youth... are threats that I cannot tolerate."

This is not an angle I have predicted. Never in my previous calculations did I guess that Trema might actually care for the organization he had scraped together from the ruins of its parent; Yevon, for all its minor change in name, is still Yevon to the core. Even presented with such a statement, my mind turns it over to look for the real meaning. Does he think that I would try to extort the priests with knowledge of the Squad? Or does Trema only say such a thing to watch how I will respond to being called a danger?

Trema is reaching out to push apart the doors to the chamber we have stopped in front of. My chin jerks up; I look immediately for a glimpse of the room beyond as the portal winces open, even as my mind still untangles the possible layers of the Founder's conversation. "I don't want to destroy New Yevon. Far from it," my voice adds for me, the same impulses that swore me to Gella this morning rather than have her start to doubt. My mouth might know its business better than I do, but I wish it would explain to me before it makes promises. "Yevon is gone. Those who I might have held a grudge against... are dead. I want to move past that. I want to be able to keep going with my life now that the Calm is here, but I don't..." think, watch Trema, keep talking, "I just don't want to have to have my past haunting me like this."

Now it is the Founder's turn to not spare his regard for me, stepping into the room and walking onwards without waiting to see if I will follow. He does not need to. Trema is fully aware that there is nowhere for me to run save down the multifold stairs, and only a long and fatal descent through thin air should I try to leap to invisible freedom. My hands catch at the doors and draw them closed behind us both; I secure the latches without looking at them, my back to the engraved wood while I dare not expose it to the Founder. Carvings of dead Fayth are my companions as I finish and lean against the door. I feel the masterwork articulation of their frozen screams against my spine.

We are in Trema's study. Shelves stud the walls, reaching up to the ceiling in places and accessible by the wheeled stepstool set to the side of the thicker carpets. All are filled with books and boxes. Placenames are scrawled across the latter in a heavy hand, letters thick and slashing; I read the mark of villages I have never seen, and others often visited. Djose. Luca. Besaid. And more, many more, stretching out all through the room to where they are stacked atop one another in the corners.

The gleam of sphere-crystal leaks through the slatted wood of the nearest containers while I stare at the collections. These cannot be all that Bevelle has collected. I have only been here for three months and have already lost track of the shipments being delivered to the temple.

Come to think of it, where _are_ all the spheres being held?

"Troublesome, indeed." Trema's voice drags me once more out of my own thoughts and fastens my attention to him. While I have been distracted, the Founder has seated himself at his desk. Whorled wood cradles his elder's frame. I find that I am no less wary of the man for all that he is sitting down, and particularly not when he is searching in the drawers, hands hidden and away from my sight. "Your reasons still do not excuse your crime. You meddle with a much greater threat than you know, hm, Baralai. We shall see if you can yet survive it."

With that, the man straightens up, unfolding a parcel of cloth as he does. Crimson spills out from his hands and resolves itself into the boundaries of a sphere. Trema sets the orb upon his desk; my own guilt shines back at me, smug, cast in shades of red. I return only deadpan to it.

Trema continues to talk, content with his regulation to a secondary role in this invisible war of blame between the sphere and I. "You see, boy... you have tampered with records that are highly restricted. None of these spheres should be, ah... _misplaced._ Do you know why this is?"

My deadpan stare to the orb remains unbroken. "No, sir."

"The simplest of riddles." Some part of this series of entrapments is amusing the Founder. His tone has lightened to that of a particularly amused scholar, eager to discuss a complex -- yet often unpracticed -- equation. "Seal a secret with a secret. Quite appropriate, I would say, to adapt the same sphere energy-lock for a door outside of a temple's Trial. As it is... the cave that has been termed the Den of Woe has been a pox for some time for Bevelle. You have gathered this already from the records, haven't you?"

Now I am shunted to the position of student, simply by laying out an opportunity for Trema to teach. Having no reason to react, I only give him a nod of my head, my gaze flicking back to the man and finding yet no reason to flee.

He continues. Eagerly. "Others were sent into the Den of Woe, you see. To record the tally of the dead. I hear it was... mm, quite the _interesting_ task to do so. It seems that the Squad served its purpose to appease the danger we knew was there. There is a creature... mm, a creature whose memory haunts that cave. Yevon never was able to search the Den for any length of time without having that being destroy the intruders. Hence the Squad was created, meant to be... hm, a distraction. Yes, a _distraction_," Trema decides, tasting the word as he rolls it around in his mouth with his tongue, "whose purpose was to feed the hunger of the fiend inside. Only the strongest could be expected to give it an adequate fight, play out its _energies_, you see. None of you were really supposed to be lucky enough to make it out alive, but even that was accounted for under Kinoc's estimations. But clearly," and now the Founder is looking at me, his voice fully bemused at the esoteric joke my life now makes, "Kinoc was... not _perfect_."

Nothing can be revealed by my face when Trema finishes speaking, because I feel nothing inside. Eyes obediently remain upon the elder priest. Ears repeat back Trema's words, telling me that yes, the truth that I expected all along was leagues beyond even what I might have dared accuse Yevon of.

I want to be surprised. I want it so much that I think I forget what surprise even is.

Trema reads my lack of reaction appropriately as shock. This is good, because for a time, I forget I have a mouth to speak with. He takes up the slack instead. "Yevon has wanted to banish this fiend for a very long time. The few survivors it has ever left always report the same tale. Feelings of... mm, negativity, and images of death. Of failure, of Bevelle's underground chambers... and pictures of a vast machina, big enough to be a monster to rival that of Sin itself."

That neatly, all the world stops in its spiral dance.

I end with it, mad laughter crawling into my mind and filling me up as surely as if I were drowning underwater. Yes, it had been like that. It had been like drowning. It had been like falling into the ocean at night and choking on the salt water, hallucinating waves of gunfire and the smell of a woman's hair.

"You know of that which I speak," Trema continues, soft and smug as he watches me frozen. "Don't you?"

Inhalations come with an effort. I force my lungs to work again, to remember that they are not filling with blood from being punctured by machina bullets. The first breath drawn is sharp, deep enough to dizzy me, and I exhale as slowly as possible before trying once more to live.

Now is enough time for my brain to recover. It stumbles on starting, tripping over numbed segments of thinking processes gone dead. "What is down there?" My question is a demand; I am out of line, but do not care. This is the answer I have been looking for. Even if Trema only presents the lure to me to see if I will condemn myself by leaping for it, I cannot help my own need to know.

The founder takes his time in his victory. He watches as my fists clench, as I fight down the panic that memory brings me, and then he finally answers.

"Vegnagun."


	9. Chapter 9

Vegnagun.

What in the Fayth's name is _that?_

I have heard no reference to such a word before. Not in the records I have studied, both in the libraries open to the Lustrum and those that are not. The word does sound Bevelle-born, but not in a fashion that has been at all common for the several hundred years, at least. Does it reference a priest? A dungeon? Perhaps a construction, or a fiend, one that was working with the blonde demon that the Squad encountered while at the Den.

A construction.

I remember.

Embarrassing to repeat the word, stamp my ignorance in stone even further. I hold my tongue. Trema can already guess that I am uncertain. Silence stretches on between the both of us; with no other option available, I shift my weight on my feet and wait for the Founder to elaborate.

He does eventually, after watching my face with all the attention of a Mi'ihen mousehawk.

"Vegnagun is a machina weapon." For once, the pause on the part of the Founder is not fleshed out by a humming of his throat. "There are more words for what it is, what its nature involves, but it is a tool of destruction. It can be turned to nothing else. Regrettable, that it cannot be adapted to be brought into the present," Trema continues, voicing a ponderous sigh that I suspect is not sincere, "but it, too, is a memory that should be erased. No good can come of it so long as the hearts of Spira's people remain willing to destroy one another."

A machina. Yes. My eyes close; the past plays out on the darkened canvas of my lids, and I see the constructed beast once more in my mind. At first, I had thought the creature to be a fiend. The scale was too vast to be otherwise, too immense despite the tubing fed into the plated skull, the ribbed bands bundled together to feed various fluids into mechanical parts. The only comparable structures would be things like the infamous Al Bhed airship.

But it moved. Like an animal, reacted to whatever vision we had been a part of as if it was alive. It operated without a visible handler. No airship could do that. No airship _should._

A living machina. Was that even possible?

"It is... _inconvenient_ for knowledge of Vegnagun to be so easily handed out by a fiend, much like a man passing sweetcakes to children on festival days." Trema's offense at the concept is a gentleman's scorn; he speaks politely of the breaches of his personal taste. "Regrettably... the Squad was unable to entirely succeed with its appointed task. Very little information was recorded. The fiend was not fully banished. Such a disappointment."

I ignore the slight against the deceased Teams. Leaping to their defense will help no one, least of all them. "Was that... thing actually inside the Den?" I taste the word of Vegnagun again in my mind; I do not dare voice it myself yet. The idea of something that big physically burrowing around is nothing short of astounding. How could it have fit? "Where is it now?"

"And if I told you such a thing?" Trema's eyes are sharp upon me. I am no field-mouse for him to hunt, but there are no doubts in me that he considers me just as small. "What would you do with, hm, a weapon that vast? Would you try to destroy it? Take vengeance for your fallen, mm... comrades?"

Humming again. The verbal tic of the Founder has returned; I ignore it, listen to the words despite the way the sounds lull my nerves to docility. "No."

"No?"

Now my brain and my mouth are operating in smooth tandem. None of this touches my voice. That can remain uncertain, stumble as if I were an acolyte far more honest than the both of us know I really am. "I just... wanted to know. I wanted to understand. At first it was because I didn't know why Yevon wanted to kill us for it, but if we were meant for death all along then... why? What is this Vegnagun? What was so important that even the knowledge of it is worth... worth _killing_, worth _destroying_ whole Teams of people without us even being told the real reasons for our deaths?"

In the process of speaking this, my composure moves from indifferent to disbelieving. I know I cannot expect anything less from Yevon. Realistically, there is no reason for me to feel betrayed; I _know_ this, and yet that does nothing to quell the despair still lingering in my heart.

Reminder of the Den did enough to open wounds that have never fully healed.

Fiend-scars never do, some superstitions claim.

I do not count on Yevon for fairness. Not ever since I was old enough to have Bevelle's games branded in my blood have I ever had the illusion that the temples were anything but honest, but this revelation strikes a place in me I thought had been trained out of idealism.

It is because of the Squad that I learned to finally see. So many ways, I had been blind before. Now I cannot close my eyes to the same duplicities I knew existed before, knew were there all along and yet didn't bother me until now. I cannot return to the past.

No matter how much I wish I could.

Recognition of this motivates my next words to Trema. "What _is_ Vegnagun? You said that there was more to the story than that. If it is... _was_, whichever it is, but if it is a machina, who built it? Why is it still a threat? Why can it not be dismantled? Is Bevelle retaining it for a reason?"

Conversation turns full center. Trema may have explained to me parts of this earlier, but none of it comes together; I cannot string the whole situation into a form that I can use, let alone understand entirely.

"Vegnagun is a memory," the Founder repeats dolefully. "A relic of the past that we cannot escape. That is all you need to know."

"I'm afraid you'll understand that isn't enough."

Heaviness floods the room. The air of Trema's study is already thick with must and grief, lit by the stories of other people's lives in crate-bound spheres. Now it trebles its weight to press down upon my shoulders and neck. Either my own blood is thickening in my veins in an attempt to save me from misspeaking further, or there is spellcraft at work.

Bones sing pain in my arm. They whisper recognition to me; this is the same energy gathering that Trema used upon me once already. This time, I do not know if he will spare me for later.

A year's work could not retract the polite retort I have laid out for Trema, as if I were the one in command, and he my subordinate. Damn.

"Is this what you want, Baralai?" Withered fingers curl and uncurl upon the orb the Founder displays on his desk, stroking the smooth surface like a musician. "To be free of your questions, so that you will not linger after death in search for your answer... mm, refusing even the help of a Sending?" Menace comes sleeker than it should in an old man's voice. "Why, if that is the case... informing you would certainly serve to keep you from lingering as an Unsent once you finally pass away. Is that all it would take to solve your mystery? Most do not die so easily, Baralai." Trema's hand curls around the sphere. Red light melts the edges of his knuckles, fuses them translucent in the record's glow. "I dare say you might not even need a Summoner. You should be pleased."

By rights, I could be frightened by this. Pleasant words from the Founder's voice deem me dead and Sent already; others might be, in my place, but there is an emptiness in my soul that resounds with three syllables meaning _Crimson Squad_. The numbness is insulative. I let it fill me, and in that silence I can better concentrate on what to do.

I take a careful step away from the door. Unaware, I have been leaning against it long enough that the imprints of the carved Fayth have embedded their outlines into my palms. "My life is not so simple as that, my lord." Please do not kill me. "There is someone else who knows about this machina weapon, someone who is not of the priests. He is looking for it even as we speak."

Now I am standing in the middle of the study, in the center of the tattooed rug which stretches its embroidered patterns around me like a ritual. I do not glance down. "When I first returned to Bevelle, it was because I wanted to know about what had happened in the Squad, but also because I knew I had to secure that information away. I have no desire to use this... Vegnagun as a weapon, but I can make no guarantees about _him_. He has already tried to kill his own friends once in order to preserve his search. I assure you, that will be the least of his methods."

Trema's interest is caught. I can see it in how he lifts his head an inch, like a fish having been caressed by the hook. The invisible pressure of the air eases. "Oh? And who, mm... _who_ was this?"

"You can guess." Now I am the one staring back at Trema, looking hard at his eyes with no vulnerability in my own. "It was Nooj."

Silence. Finally, a single noise from the Founder. "Ah."

Bevelle duplicity remains well within my instincts. Having found my emotional center once more and banished the feelings of the Squad, I find such senses work for me as obediently as ever. My deliverance of the Deathseeker's name is an offering of information to Trema. Nooj still retains a price on his head; no longer in gil, but in the currency of politics.

Much like my willingness to deal with Seymour in the same manner, there is no guilt here. I have already seen how Nooj is more than eager to betray me first.

The Founder sits back in his chair with a sigh.

I take the preemptive opportunity, speak first. "I know Nooj. I also know just how capable he is in infiltrating a person's trust. He was willing to murder those who put their faith in him once already, and I have no doubts that he will do this again."

A dry chuckle rises from the Founder. "And would you like me to believe that I should... ah, _trust you_," and those two words are placed as delicately as game pieces on a jeweled board, "more than I should Mi'ihen's Deathseeker? You, who have already falsified your position within the Lustrum? Oh, I know you have no business here, mm, Baralai," Trema adds, turning the advantage back towards him as deftly as a master. "None of the priests have yet dared risk claiming you as their own. They are too afraid to investigate. On my part... I have been waiting to see, mm, when you will expose your _hand_."

Fire flares in my arm once more as Trema says that last word; this, too, is only memory, a leftover echo of what happened between us the last we met. I tell myself this. Discipline forces my hand to stop aching. I tell myself this, and then I repeat it twice for good measure.

If Trema notices my wincing, he does not let it alter his satisfaction.

"And now you have, Baralai. So, tell me... why should I trust you any more than, mm, the Deathseeker? Are you vying for his title by being so daring in the heart of Bevelle itself? Do you think you can yet overcome death, to be so frivolous with your life?"

I resist the change in position from attacker to defense. I will have my victory. "No. It's up to you which one of us you believe more, but I have a better idea of Nooj's behavior and how he tends to plan. Also," and this statement is entirely too calm for its own good, "you have more of a secure hold upon me than you do Nooj. You can count on that."

Trema knows of the reason I speak. His eyes betray him this time; they flick down to the Crimson Sphere in his grasp. Then they move back to me. Just in time to keep me from entirely hiding the small smile.

He is more experienced than I am. His expression remains steady, unchanged, for all that his ancient's voice turns wry in slant mockery. "Using your past as incentive to keep you in line? That is hardly, mm, a _solid_ basis to build a working relationship on, Baralai."

"That was what you used to bring me here." Now the weight of the room has returned to normal. I square my shoulders. "Didn't I come?"

Never planning for this day would have proven me a fool. I have built numerous courses of action in the event that a priest would find evidence upon me and so try to twist my loyalties to their hand; having the Founder himself involved was not a case I estimated for, but it is not impossible to surmount. Bevelle speaks in this language best.

Blackmail. We all know its cant, just as well as we know that betrayals are sure to follow in any such partnership.

Trema is aware of this as well. If he keeps me in such a manner, it will only be a matter of time before I find a way to unseat him. Unless he kills me first, sells me to another; the only question will be _when_, not if.

"Was that the truth of why you answered my summons, Baralai?" Staccato patter of fingertips. The Founder is drumming his fingers on the desk, having moved his hand away from the Crimson Sphere. His voice is slow. Thoughtful. "Are you that chained to your past? You must have learned _nothing_ from what I have been telling you. Spira's secrets should be forgotten. Those who cling to their memories," and here he waves imperiously to the sphere, then to the room itself with all its boxes and tomes, "will only be dragged down by them, ever chasing the dead. Why, just look at how long it took us to defeat Sin. In the end, it was the one Summoner who chose to escape the ways of the past who freed us. She was the one who finally realized the way to break the cycle. If not for her... we would, mm, still be _languishing_ in our own self-imposed chains, unable to see the future clearly from the biases of our past."

Rare to find a priest who decries Yevon so neatly, considering the habits of tradition. Even more rare to discover that Trema is in such a camp. "Was that how Lady Yuna won?"

"She knew the path to power." His hand returns to the orb, rolls over it. Unbidden, I recall the voices of my Team to me. Gippal sitting on the rail of the ship, laughing. Nooj, hitting him with a cane. I only once saw the sphere that Trema took from me, the images exposing themselves across the meeting hall, but the experience was mine to replay any time I wished.

Gippal talking about the Maesters. Thoughts about what we would do after the Squad. Nooj, plotting and planning for advance tactics once we made land.

Paine telling me I haven't changed at all.

I am torn between watching the Founder for miniscule changes in his facial muscles, and looking back down at the Crimson Sphere as it glimmers on the desk. Light simmers in those ruddy depths. Paine's eyes do the same thing at sunset; realizing I am thinking of her again, I wrest my full attention back to Trema. "Do you mean I shouldn't care about the sphere anymore?"

An easy question to say. My stomach lurches after I phrase it.

Such an idea causes the Founder no end of amusement. "You mm, seem to think that _New_ Yevon is the same as the old, Baralai. That we are operating on the same standards. Unsurprising." Trema coughs a laugh up through his nose. "You would do well to study the example of the Lady Yuna. She knew that only a person willing to abandon everything can achieve anything. The other priests... hm, _they_ do not realize this. But they will. I plan to have them discover this, in time. New Yevon will succeed even if tradition itself balks. Do not let yourself be dragged down with it."

Treason is a word marked out of the Bevelle dictionary. Other priests have planned the same or worse, and rarely has it been a surprise to the more cynical. I would be foolish to assume that I have been allowed in Trema's confidence so neatly; for all I know, this line of conversation could similarly be bait.

Unfortunately, the Founder's vocal patterns have returned to winding themselves like a cord around bannerpoles; I sort through the directions he twists, finally resorting to an attempt to bring the conversation back towards me. "The Lady Yuna chose to leave her faith, my lord. Haven't I done the same already? If she kept her Guardians by her side, then what is the harm in me retaining a sphere?"

"You want it back because it is a threat." Slicing through the oblique feint of my words, Trema's maudlin ramblings sharpen themselves back to acuity. "Will you risk your future because you cannot release your own sentimentalism, Baralai? Or do you want your freedom from it, forever?"

Implications again that I will not have the sphere returned. I fight down the gritting of my teeth. For all the vague lessons that Trema seems intent on testing me against, I do not think I care about passing his exam. We have both talked ourselves in circles. The rotations seem narrower each time; if I am truly trapped, I would rather an idea of the conditions so I can begin research on ways to break them.

Silence measures itself out between us like grains of sand on an alchemist's scale. Finally, Trema realizes I will say nothing, can say nothing. There is no option that I can see other than to agree to his possession of the Crimson Sphere or to request it back. All the bargains in the world cannot change that.

A long-suffering exhalation from the Founder sounds like so many dead twigs stirred in a storm. Trema might pass himself off as a patient tutor, but I have remained obtuse. "Power, Baralai. Power will come to those who are able to free themselves. Watch."

All this time and Trema has continued to pet the Crimson Sphere. I am surprised he has not left sweat-trails on the orb by now, rubbing his palm over the surface in meditative action. Now he stills his hand. Focuses on the ruby record; the trigger for playback is just below his thumb, but Trema does not move to press it.

I am not sure what he means to do, but I think I do not like it already.

With expression intent, the Founder closes his grasp. I expect to see his knuckles whiten on the impenetrable surface of the sphere. Instead, the gnarled fingers pass through the surface of the crystal as neatly as if inserting themselves into a container of jelly, congealed pyreflies within beginning to ooze out through the puncture wounds.

They spill out like the broken yolk of a rainbow egg. Color leaks from the puddles to shine across the room. Trema levers his wrist down, forcing his palm further into the heart of the orb until he is touching the center of the spidering light that crawls over the record from within.

I am watching Trema stick his entire hand into a sphere.

Then I realize he has just thrust his fingers into the record of my private memories, and I think about being sick.

Pyreflies stream out in banners from the wounded orb, dancing in spark-madness across the enclosure of the room. They ripple around me where I stand on the circle-stamped rug; in the flashes of their light, I see the story imprinted upon them played one last time. The ocean laps itself across the study floor. Nooj's cane makes rhythmical thumps upon salt-soaked wood. Gippal is looking at me, laughing, his voice mixing with Paine's as the figures take translucent life and repeat their tale in a single, dying flare.

Nooj vanishes first. Gippal next, melting away with the ship as it dissolves. I think I call out their names, but cannot distinguish my voice from the one on playback. Gippal fades away. Then there is only the recorder of our Team left, leather in the night, hair short and bangs stiffened so that they will not get in the way of her work.

She looks at me. She says something, something I cannot hear because I am reaching out my hand to try and grab her, keep her from leaving too.

I shove my fingers into her stomach and Paine disappears.

The pyreflies are gone. Not even the shell of the sphere remains in Trema's hand; the Founder's fingers make an empty circle upon the desk. Gravity has implanted rocks in my gut. I cannot have witnessed what I thought I did. Spheres are supposed to last forever, even if the quality of their images decrease. A person cannot just place their fist inside one.

Never have I seen one so casually destroyed.

The Founder is talking through my stunned haze. Eventually I remember that he, too, is real, and not some spirit-hallucination brought on by broken feedback loops. "Do you see your chance for freedom now, Baralai?"

"Yes." I hear my own voice answering, a dry-lipped whisper of dread. I do not know why I answer Trema. All I can think of is the sight of pyreflies dispersing out of the shards of what was once my past.

Gone. Just like that. Vanishing into nothingness, never to be recovered again.

Trema's voice is a patient litany. "Will you follow the path of Lady Yuna, and choose to leave your history behind?"

Memories dissolving into thin air, or dead bodies on the breeze. I cannot think.

"Yes."

"Good." Trema's voice is as satisfied as paper pages rubbed together, turned by scholars. His tongue must be as dry as a table of contents.

Suddenly the study is cramped again, the air hot as an oversized coffin. Stuffy. I break myself out of my own trance by force. Take a step back, remember that the door is no longer directly behind me.

To my credit, I do not stumble. Much.

"You are not yet ready to learn the nature of the beast you seek, Baralai. That might yet change with time. Indeed," the Founder continues, musing his words out like a drowsy poet, "with time. We shall see upon this. Until then, however, we must find something to do with you."

There is no answer I can give, even if this was my place in all formality to speak. Convenient that it is not. I do not trust myself to do more than replay the last few minutes in my mind, watch the sphere crumble apart and put itself back together once more in rewind.

"I have no acolyte to, mm... _task_. As I understand it, you have no priest currently assigning you. This will change." Trema takes my shock well in stride, and advantage to place orders upon me while I cannot protest. "After all, who else should I count upon to keep a Lustrum like you in line, other than myself? Now go." Flat dismissal. "I will have your assignments sent to you."

The twisting forms of the Fayth touch my fingers as I backpedal automatically, fumble behind me for the door, and then shove it open hastily. I throw it closed as soon as I have exited. Safety consists of a barrier of wood between myself and the Founder. Why does it not feel like enough?

Rampart air embraces me when I stumble out onto the balcony walkway and begin the slow descent around the tower. The winter is brisk, restorative. In the time it took for Trema to speak with me, the clouds have already congealed, thick and white in a slate grey sky; a blizzard storm might be on the way at this rate, one that would leave the priests scuttling between halls and weigh the lifts down heavy.

Panic goads me. The emotion is an afterthought, a slow beast waking to nip at my heels now that I am no longer under the spell of the Founder. I need to get away. I want to flee the tower as soon as I am able. One knee is protesting from its previous spill onto the stones, and then I am slipping again, grabbing for the balcony rail to steady myself.

Rather than try to pitch myself headlong down the stairs, I lean against the railing for support. Breathe. Attempt to recover my wits, what little I have left. It comes as no surprise that the Founder would know the truth of the Crimson Squad, but never did I think I would have the answer to my search presented in such a fashion.

The Founder has set the lure of my quest before me. Now he waits to see if I will reach out to take it, so that he can snap my hand off at the wrist.

Vegnagun. Spheres. Offers of work that the other priests would certainly not question. Records destroyed so casually, so permanently, in a manner that keeps them from ever being used against me again; the temptation of such a way out of the trap of my past is enough to dizzy me. No one would question what I do if the Founder himself was known to be my priest, and I his Lustrum aide.

Trema has dangled the keys to all the locks before my nose, and I want to snatch them from his grasp.

But what price?

Am I a creature owned, as surely as Gella? Will I, too, be unable to walk to my full stride, wrapped in the vestments my priest desires? Am I truly prepared to face down Nooj if the opportunity presents itself?

And where is Paine?

Trema's voice worms its way into my thoughts, whispering of the past and of power. I look down over the temples. I think of red on snow.


	10. Chapter 10

_"Assemble!"_

Seven days of thinking. One week spent in an empty void of mechanical action, performing rote tasks and laughing blank-faced with the other Lustrum at meal hours. Nothing of my work to string together the conversation with the Founder has succeeded; with all the back-and-forth fencing of our words, I am not even certain what I myself said.

Trema offered to destroy evidence for me. Trema spoke to me about freedom, and in the same breath, insisted that I would work for him from now on. Trema told me that the High Summoner Yuna defeated Sin because she could overcome her own memories, or maybe I just _think_ that's what he said. It's hard to tell. Nothing makes sense. My mind is tired, so tired from all these games I have had to play keeping people safely separated, and sometimes it does not look as if I am any closer to my goal than when I began.

I can't understand anything. I _need_ to. I have to be at the peak of my wits to outmaster Trema, to work with the loyalty of the Lustrum and to lie to all of Bevelle; I do not dare stumble blindly through the webbing of the Founder's plans to snare me.

If Gippal were here, I could talk to him. Figure everything out. If Paine were here, she could listen to all the matters I usually worry about and scoff at my tendencies to think ahead. If Nooj --

If Nooj were here, I would have to call for the guards and then think of a convenient excuse for why I just tried to arrest Mi'ihen's Deathseeker.

But I am alone. There is no one I can speak to here. This is because there is a good reason for me to work in Bevelle on my own, and even if I cannot remember it clearly or why, I know I must stay that way. Friends _are_ distractions. Yevon is a religion of deception, and it _would_ destroy them. It will destroy me as well unless I can find a way to change the past into the future like a mage spelling ice water out the sky, and make Yevon into something truly New at last.

No matter how much I might want for my old Team back, I remind myself that I _must_ remain detached if I wish to have any chances of succeeding against Nooj.

I can't think well these days. My own motivations have become suspect.

All Trema's humming and vague discussion blurs together in my mind. Further retrospection only presents me with vivid images of Paine disappearing before my eyes, and I cut off all my paths of thought right there.

I hate being confused.

_"Face!"_

Seven days, and I have no idea what really happened in that study between myself and Trema. All I can count on is that the sphere I was afraid would be used as leverage to condemn me has been destroyed. No one will find it now, not unless they can sift through the Farplane itself to reassemble the memory from pyrefly sparks.

Twice already I have woken up cold, shivering in the small hours of the morning. The violence of my recent dreams has been enough to throw the covers entirely off the bed.

All I remember of my nightmares is the image of the Squad melting away underneath Trema's grip. Their faces run together like red tallow-wax. They scream like the mouths of the Fayth on the Founder's study door, and I have begun to show up early to breakfast for the distraction of Dopha's latest research paper rather than spend any time longer asleep than I have to.

_"Present!"_

This is a miserable situation.

The lack of concentration makes sparring practice even more difficult. I managed to skip the last time they were held, citing illusionary work to file, but too many absences would look irregular to the priests and attract unwanted attention from them. Meaning, really, any attention at all. For all that Trema has claimed he has taken me on in assignment, I have not received any word from the Founder and so do not yet believe I am free from the other priests yet.

The staffs we are practicing with today are looped-poles. They are thinnest at the middle, widening at the ends to form a flared trumpet-cylinder on either side that is then weighted down to aid in spinning. The name for them comes from the oblong holes punched through the main body of the staff at strategic locations, reinforced by metal capping to keep them from cracking at the gaps. The openings are meant to serve as informal guards against bladed weapons as well as reinforce the grip during lunges.

Some scoff at the use of such a design, claiming that the holes only weaken the structural integrity. My own opinion is uncertain. I was part of the audience that watched Gella perform a demonstration with these against a pair of swordfighters; Gella use the fluted edge of this type of staff to crack the kneecap of one clean out of socket. As I understand it, she is trying to change the classification to that of a polearm, but I have not paid as much attention to weapons standards.

Today, I have been matched with Somasil. This alone is a rarity. Customarily, Somasil is teamed up against Gella. Their training levels are both high enough that the two are a fair match, while they usually trounce any other of the Lustrum they are faced against. By the same token, Shelinda and Dopha are matched together at the far end. Neither look as if they know how to hold their quarterstaff properly; Dopha is holding his away from his body as if he was forced to carry a dead rat.

_"Salute!"_

We turn and face one another.

The tassels lashed around the ends of my pole are green, and I shake the top one out of being tangled before I tilt the staff forward to tap that of Somasil's. Not before coming to the Lustrates Halls have I ever used a weapon like this; my training in the Crimson Squad mostly concerned the handling of machina guns, which I have stopped favoring due to their tendency to run out of ammunition during fiend attacks.

He returns the gesture with a harsh slap of his weapon against mine. The expression on the Lustrum's face is not like his customary placidity. Somasil is a dark-haired man and bullish in his build; normally this is not intimidating, for he tends to a restrained ease of motion that the physically strong acquire when they are forced to handle glassware for too long. Now he grips the looped-pole with fingers that know full well that they are capable of snapping another beneath them.

I last remember seeing Somasil in practice on my way to the consul hall. Then, We raised our hands in greeting to one another; this is not a welcome I see upon him now, but only a muted glare.

"What's wrong?" My voice is quiet as I whisper across the distance between us. Scouring about for a reason, my mind summarizes a vague guess. The only times that it is safe for Somasil to encounter Gella is during these practice sessions. Any other hour and the watchers set out by Gella's priest are all too eager to report Somasil, alert the New Yevon official that Gella is going stray.

"Are you upset that you didn't get paired with Gella? I'm as surprised as you are..."

Somasil cuts me off with a cold spitting of words. "I was the one who requested you. We have to talk."

_"Begin!"_

The roar of the practice official sets Somasil into motion first. He throws his weight low, resorting to a half-crouch so that he can send the pole forward in a thrust for my midsection. The tassels spasm in the air, flaring the blue strands tied to his weapon towards my ribs.

Surprised into silence, I duck automatically when the staff comes whistling through the air. A twist to the left takes me out of harm's way. I barely have enough time to regain my balance when Somasil follows up, advances his left food forward and spins the staff down towards my shoulder. I gauge its speed and sidestep once more. The wind of its passing scrapes down my face; playing the attacks any more narrowly will get me in trouble.

This close in proximity, masked by the sounds of the other Lustrum in spar, Somasil grits out the rest of his accusation. "I know you've been talking to her, Baralai. Maybe I can't see her directly," and his voice is sullen, sour, "but that doesn't mean I don't know what's going on."

"What?"

At first I have not the slightest clue of what is on Somasil's mind. My question is blurted out in a hasty breath, one that I should have saved in order to do more than throw a hasty parry to deflect the next blow coming towards me. A head shot this time, and when I lift my staff to block it squarely with both hands, Somasil turns the weapon down to brace it against the ground and lash out with his foot.

The added leverage grants the Lustrum a nasty bit of force. I tumble, rolling back automatically and am up on my feet in time to properly shield from the next strike.

Somasil has me on the defensive. In more ways than one; I can barely get a minute to dispel the man's suspicions, let alone change the pace of the battle to be more in my control.

"Don't play stupid, Baralai." Somasil grunts as he whips the quarterstaff around in a low sweep, aiming for my legs. I throw my weight on a hand to spring up, into a crouch, and from there up onto my feet and in the air. The strike misses. "I saw her going to your room last week. She's been missing a lot, and Dopha says it's because she's doing things for _you_."

Her?

Gella?

The concept is so strange that I am lax to counterattack, missing the other Lustrum by a clear handspan of inches. Most of my focus is on hissing out my words under my breath. "Gella's been helping me out against the _priests_, Somasil. We have no interest in each other like that. I know the involvement you and she have, and I also know why you can't be together. Believe me, please." If only so that I will not have my skull caved in.

Now I am panting, trying to get the words out in hopes that they might slow the flurry of Somasil's attack. "She's doing me a favor as a friend. That's all it is. Believe me," I repeat. "I want to help you both out."

Both our sets of feet pound against the thin practice mats, the layered fabric long-worn from numerous sessions. I can feel the struggles of the other pairs of Lustrum communicated through the vibrations to my soles. Hopefully the luckless individual matched against Gella is not having nearly the rough time I am.

Somasil's face tightens as he pulls his staff up, giving the wood a warning spin that easily soaks the impetus of my strike against it. "Help us, Baralai?" The anger in him is a fraying one. He holds fast to it, growling out the only questions he can guess in the doublefaced culture of Bevelle. "Or isn't that really, help yourself?"

There is no reason for Somasil to think otherwise. He knows that a person can expect little that is completely honest from Yevon, New or otherwise. Somasil is a man speaking with the desperation of one who knows that they have everything to lose, and it is slipping out of their hands each day.

Desperation. I have become good friends with that emotion. I see it in the Lustrum around me, and feel it in my own heart the longer I remain in Bevelle. I am separated from my friends, as I know I must be, and yet I am losing track of what it is I am actually here as time goes on.

"I'm here for the person _I_ love, Somasil." Those words come out curiously intense. I do not pause to think if I am exaggerating them into a form the other Lustrum will respect. "There's something I need to do to keep her safe. I can only get that done here, and I need the help of the other Lustrum."

We reverse position on the mats, Somasil backing towards the edge of the boundary lines, and I the one advancing.

Thirst racks my throat. Trying to hold a civil discussion while in the middle of this fight is a nightmare fit to join the dreams of the Squad dissolving. Staffs clatter around us both in wooden chorus, matched with the shouts of the other Lustrum.

If I can only force Somasil out of the mat-lines, I can technically count a victory. Maybe luck will fall on my side. For once.

Somasil does not seem to notice the widening chances for my success. He takes one step back, then another, shifting his staff in his hands to cleanly block each of my forward swings. "Safe?" The word comes out in his voice like a child wondering aloud at fiends. "And risking getting Gella in even more trouble's going to do that?"

"I'm not -- " I start, and then Somasil seems to revive himself, halts his own retreat. His feet plant themselves on the mat and brace against the impacts of my advance; only a few seconds go by as we are locked in impasse, and then he digs his own staff low to hook it out at an acute angle. One of the loop-holes catches the edge of my weapon. I struggle to free it, but Somasil levers his up, forces me to try and step away if I wish to retain my grip.

The other Lustrum bears down on me. I twitch my weapon from one side to the other in an attempt to break the lock. Sweat stands out on his face; my own must be damp with it, from all the fury that the Lustrum has tried to vent.

In a last effort, I dig the other end of my quarterstaff into the mats, set my foot against it to try and keep the weapon from skidding. Somasil halts. At first I think I have managed to thwart the worst of his charge, but then I focus on his face, and the panted words he is growling out. "What proof do I have of any of what you say, Baralai?"

I think I can taste my own lungs trying to crawl out of my throat.

"None." I am like Nooj. I ask others to believe me while giving them nothing but empty hands in return. Perhaps I smile while I do so, but in the end, I leave others with nothing but questions.

No. I am not like Nooj. If I were, I would be packing a gun to this spar.

With a gritted mutter, Somasil twists his staff to the side. It sends my own slipping down; automatically, I spin with it to try and keep it from being lost. My mistake. Even as I am turning, Somasil has lifted his foot again and slams his heel into my ribs.

I hit the mats less gracefully than before this time. Half my muscles inform me rather cynically that they would prefer to stay down rather than be forced back into the fight. I ignore them. Only one of my hands managed to keep its death-grip on the looped-staff; pulling it towards me, I crane my head up just in time to see the worst.

Somasil has planted his feet again in a full stance, taking advantage of my disorientation to dance his staff in his hands. The weapon is lifted above his head, whirling like a dust storm; the blue tassels have run together like colors in the rain, painting twin circles in the air that seem to rotate freely around the nexus of the Lustrum.

It is too late for me to block. The end of the looped-staff slams into my shoulder and skims off it to crash into my jaw. Teeth clack shut with a hot bloom of blood; judging from the pain, I have just bit into a healthy part of my tongue.

I have seen this maneuver before. Somasil calls it _glinting_, because of the way that light catches itself off the staff and causes it to blur in a hypnotic illusion, causing any victims watching to believe that the staff itself has actually grown in length to strike them. In reality, Somasil only switches his hands down the grips to extend his reach. The speed of the staff whirls around where he stands in the center and keeps it from falling in mid-air. Somasil has torn apart two practice dummies at once with that attack before; it figures that I'd catch the brunt of one of his signature moves.

I didn't realize that it hurt so much.

If we were on better speaking terms, I might ask for a repeat. At this rate, though, I think the demonstration dummy would be myself.

Somasil doesn't wait to give me a hand up off the ground. I lever myself up painfully on my own, the backs of my fingers rubbing against the swelling already beginning to manifest on my jaw. The tang of blood paints the inside of my mouth. I think about spitting it out, and then decide not to until I can probe for any loose teeth first.

He regards me with scorn. When he speaks, the Lustrum's voice is soft enough that it almost drowns in the noise of the hall and the training official's call for a medic. "You're not strong enough to do anything, Baralai. I don't trust you to help us. Not now. Not ever."


	11. Chapter 11

After three more weeks of silence from the Founder, I decide to go looking for him first.

I could have shortened the time, in all honesty, but it took eight days for the swelling to go down after my spar with Somasil. Somehow, I was not eager to see Trema while still mumbling through a bruise that took up half a cheek. The healers tell me I was lucky to not have a broken jaw; as it is, it took several additional days before I could fully rotate the shoulder that had taken the brunt of Somasil's attack.

The damage earned me the mixed fascination and sympathy of Dopha. He had taken a crack across the knuckles by a lucky shot on Shelinda's part; Dopha had not been using the holes in the looped-staffs properly to protect his hands, and earned a set of nasty bruises all his own.

"I hear Somasil and Gella are going to graduate to full circles soon," he told me privately over a cup of morning coffee, flourishing his fingers like a war trophy for all that the damage had already faded. "When that happens, we won't have to worry about facing _them_ anymore in trial like that."

"It was Shelinda that gave you that mark, not either of them," I remind him crisply.

He passes me the sugar. "You're exactly right!" Nothing of displeasure colors his voice. "But I figure, maybe if the priests have to deal with level tests, they might also remember to fail others of us out."

I spoon out what I need and slide the jar back. Speaking hurts when your face is still painted mottle-rot from a bruise, but I like to keep in the habit. "Is that your plan?"

"Do us a favor and don't tell anyone, okay, Baralai?" Dopha arranges his fingers in half a blessing gesture, wags them in supplication towards me. "Shelinda and I are both hoping to get disqualified from having to train for fighting anymore. It's just _not_ what we're good at. _You_ know that. Making us try to be something we're not... just isn't a proper use of our talents."

I can't argue that. Rather than even try, I take a long sip from my cup. The liquid is hot, sweet, and does much to wash down the dry crumbles of breakfast bread. Dopha tries to steal what's left off my plate and I tactfully look the other way while his fingers inch over.

The scholar is in a good mood.

He must have been assigned extra research papers.

Full circle quarterstaffs are a degree above the looped models. The main bodies of the full-circles are solid, hard-packed wood; if you are not capable of saving your fingers by that time, it is fitting that you lose them. Instead, the ends of the advanced quarterstaffs have single circles worked into the design. Hence the name; the full circles are sometimes edged to allow for slashing maneuvers, but naturally our practice training has not resorted to such degrees of lethality.

In comparison to all my work analyzing and calculating social tactics, I have not given nearly much thought to my own skills in combat. Somasil and Gella both could easily be the equal of a bladed warrior; with more training, they could likely outmaster a machina gunner.

It would seem in my best interest if I were to pursue their level of study. Bikanel has skewed my opinion of any weapon that requires reloading; Nooj's parting with the Team has only made it worse. While total avoidance of machina firearms would only be unnecessary prejudice--they are useful, after all--I think I should try to be prepared for all situations.

Besides, Nooj relies on machina for the most part.

The only problem would be which one of the Lustrum I could learn such skills from. Gella is easier to speak with, having already shown a willingness to lean in my direction, but I cannot train with her unless I want to be targeted again by either her jealous suitor, her priest, or both. Likewise, it does not seem likely that I can have Somasil himself volunteer to be my tutor.

This impasse shows no signs of breaking itself. Gella's priest being removed would be the most logical step; that would eliminate a large part of the restrictive barrier between Somasil and Gella and might win me the solid loyalty of both. Matter solved.

Perhaps Trema can banish Unsent as easily as he crushed a sphere out of existence. If so, murder might not be so implausible a solution to pull off.

I think I will leave such means as a last resort.

Which is the second of the matters that has occupied me for my duration healing up after the training spar. Trema's control over a recording sphere is not something I have managed to figure out. Not only did the Founder know I retained one in the consul hall, despite my pains in concealment, but Trema also was able to destroy the orb. Such processes must logically exist already. There are certain springs where Bevelle has been able to harvest fresh congealments of pyreflies in blank records; Macalania is one such place. Ideally, there must also be research done to reverse the process, return the spheres back to nothingness.

But the Founder did so with such ease that the memory continues to disturb me. His ability cannot be a secret that is widely known amidst Yevon. If this were true, far more spheres would have disappeared over the years, rather than being dug up years later to present evidence that a person had thought would be long safe. Yevon could have destroyed any record with sterile certainty; control of the spheres would have been far more strict, to prevent the security of information being smuggled out instead of simply passed hand to hand by traders on the Highroad.

Or I might be projecting my thoughts too far ahead into conspiracy. The truth is that only Trema knows.

Four weeks have gone by since I last met with him in his study. Some of that can be blamed on my injury, but otherwise, the time delay is far too lax for my liking. I have prolonged my doom. If Trema has assigned guards to spy on me in event that I try to flee Bevelle or enact grand treachery, then he must be sorely disappointed. The largest act of mystery I have performed in all those days is to come up with one of the books Dopha was searching for in the libraries, having found it misfiled in a stack three shelves down.

Now I walk up the stairs to his tower once more. This ascent does not require running, weaving through the treachery of slush where the steps exit into open-air balconies. I can take the climb at my leisure, which is good because it allows me the time to compose my thoughts.

A more foolhardy acolyte might agree to Trema's terms. They could believe themselves to be in full control, the shield of their bravado keeping them from falling prey to the elaborate machinations of Yevon. Eventually, they would come to believe that what they are doing really is of their own free will.

On a day as cold as this, in the heart of Bevelle's winter, they might even remember what they originally wanted from life.

Another option is more primitive; join Trema, but seek to undermine him from the very first day spent in enrollment. Chief amidst the drawbacks is that this method is one already expected by most of Yevon's priests. They would expect little else. Layered plans are customary, stacking ploy upon ploy until there are enough false trails to hopefully throw off a hunter's nose, but I am not certain if keeping to tradition will win me any more esteem from the Founder.

I do not know which means is best. Trema spoke of wanting to break away from the past. It might be that he is only looking for support of his own. Such a viewpoint is radical to the stolid, steady base that is Bevelle; he cannot have told many of the other priests. If any.

The only certainty is that I invite my death if I should give off an unwilling appearance. Whether or not I would actually agree to Trema's terms has never been seriously under debate; I can do nothing to deal with this Vegnagun if I am extinguished. Turning Unsent might have given me an extra edge of time if the priests were to kill me by fabricated accident, but after witnessing Trema's orchestration of pyreflies, I do not trust that contingency plan anymore.

It may be that I could find a way to solve my own problems while cooperating with the Founder. Records of the Crimson Squad could be permanently rendered by the man, that much was sure. His plans are too radical to not garner notice from the rest of Bevelle, no matter how much he phrases them in an old man's quaver. When that occurs, I can seek to pull away, and count my successes afterwards.

After all, revolution of Yevon's party into New Yevon form is not in my interest.

Even though it would fulfill my promise to the Lustrum.

Winter's snowfall has lessened itself over the weeks, even though its chill has latched onto every stone and bridge. My breath steams out in abbreviated plumes when I exhale. Lustrum robes do nothing to keep me warm. I wonder if I can petition Trema to get a change of clothes in exchange for filing some of his forms.

Slipping a hand out from where I have tucked it inside my sleeve, I knock once upon the door to the Founder's study.

Nothing.

I debate the wisdom of rapping a second time. The guard-priest waiting at the Founder's private lift assured me that indeed, Trema had not descended yet this day. If the man is inside, I might be disrupting a spell of delicate proportions.

The backlash from the energies involved might have explosive results. Trema might be caught in the blast. Consequences could be fatal.

I think about this.

Then I knock again, louder.

When there is no reply to that sound -- meteoric or otherwise -- I lower my hand. Maybe the priest is mistaken. Trema could be absent after all, or perhaps ritual spirited him away through the air itself to teleport him to depths unknown, uncharted save for his interference. There are numerous cloisters in Bevelle. Who knows if the study conceals doorways to the underground levels?

I extend my fingers towards the latch, pausing as the tips touch the metal. Just when I am debating the wisdom of entering and exploring the chamber on my own, the Founder's voice calls out. Muffled, distracted. "Enter."

Dry sawdust meets my nose as I press into the study. The air is warm. I close the door behind me to keep from losing too much of the heat to winter.

Trema is seated at his desk; two sphere crates are unbolted and open, spilling out their contents in multicolor format across the furniture. The orbs were packed in wooden shavings to keep them from chipping even with the insulation of the net-wire wrappings. Records splintered might not be playable while broken apart, but recovering all the pieces is possible if you have the patience.

Most handlers do not. Trema is in the process of examining a tag when I interrupt.

"My lord."

"Ah." Another series of seconds while the Founder reads out the tagged details, and then he turns the orb around in his hand to examine the record from every angle. "Baralai. Excellent."

Temperatures were not nearly this comfortable the last time I visited. The reason for the change would have to be the fire simmering in the study's hearth; the rug has been pulled back away from the inlaid stones so that there would be no danger of sparks catching fabric into an inferno. Either Trema knew to expect me, or even he feels the chill of the season.

The tableau remains like this, Trema's attention on the sphere and my own on the hearth. Logs snap at each other like quarreling dogs.

Crystal resounds with a dull thunk when the Founder finishes with the record at last, sets it down on the surface of the desk where it serves as a paperweight for preexisting files. "I am pleased to see you up and about, Baralai. I heard you had quite, mm... the _nasty_ spill just recently, am I right?"

"My humblest apologies for the delay, my lord." Though it sends a twinge through my shoulder, I slide my palms parallel to perform the ritual bow. "I hope my absence did not inconvenience your affairs."

Formalities. My lack of initiative in contacting Trema is only logical, considering how the Founder told me he would send orders first. The greatest interruption I could have been would involve the assignment of the Founder's spies upon me to make certain that I would not attempt conspiracy, and in that, I have done naught but waste their time.

Trema does not seek to place elaborations of blame upon me, falsify excuses in a chance to punish me for invisible faults. "On the contrary. You, hm, came at the perfect time." Papers have their corners flipped beneath his thumb as he searches in the mess on his desk; sorting through the various texts, the Founder is careful not to roll any spheres off the table when he tugs a folder free. This is offered to me. "I have a task for you. It involves the individuals that New Yevon is assembling for use in the sphere hunts. You, mm, said you were skilled at this in particular, did you not?"

"Pardons, my lord." Boots go unheard save for quiet thumps as I walk across the room and its ornate carpet. My hand reaches out to accept the scribed papers, flip the cover of the folder back. Automatically, my eyes have already begun to skim the contents even while I continue to speak. "I don't understand. Which talent did you mean?"

Trema hears the jibe implicit, makes a faint smile out of his age-spotted features. I have just attempted to remind the Founder that I have more than just one ability to my name. Whether or not he finds such a claim more than amusing is up to him.

"It concerns Mi'ihen's Deathseeker. The one known as Nooj," the Founder expounds needlessly, turning back to the crates to fish out a new sphere and sort for its tag. "This man's name has appeared on the list of Seekers willing to work for New Yevon. If you know him as well as you say you do, I would like you to estimate how useful he would be for this cause. Bring me back your honest opinion. I would like to see an example of your capabilities... not only for the ability to judge but also for handling the Seekers as a whole. They will be instrumental to New Yevon's future."

In the indifference of Trema's words, I understand the trap. Far too easy to single out Nooj now due to my own prejudice. If I am the type of person to put short-term satisfaction ahead of the longer goals, if I am unable to keep my own sense of betrayal from interfering with rationality, then Trema would know I am a faulty instrument.

I force myself to keep on task. Dossiers fill the folder, and I search through them for a face familiar. So far, all the pictures feature individuals with normal hair. That makes it easy to skim over. "Where is he assigned?"

"The applicants for Seekers are gathering around.. mm, Luca. Much better weather than here, wouldn't you agree?" Sawdust puffs up from the crate that Trema has his hand in now, trying to wrest his next sphere out. "There are approximately thirty names on the list. I am turning their evaluations all over to you."

Luca. The trip through the Thunder Plains would be long enough. I will need to hurry if I am to arrive at the port city.

"I understand." Folding the paper away in my robes, I perform the bow to signal my departure. My mouth knows the drill. Just as it had once vowed to another priest, it present words of blank sincerity. "I will not fail you."

"No." Shrewdness catches my statement, dissects it in the air and in the eyes of the Founder as he looks up at me, shedding the illusion of his preoccupation in an instant. "I rather think you shall not."


	12. Chapter 12

There is a strange power in being known never to explain yourself. It's impossible to keep people from gossiping even when they are aware of the facts, but being too closed-mouthed earns you just as many troublemakers as it does allies. Or bruises on your face. Even if you say nothing when you speak, you should still do a lot of it just in case the silence causes even more suspicion.

That is another lesson of Bevelle. Watch out for large sticks, particularly those wielded by jealous paramours.

Since it's a trick in of itself to convince the crowd to spin tales around you based upon the direction you desire, trying to be perfect is only an exercise in futility. I haven't yet figured on what degree of effort is best. Being in the Crimson Squad seems to have done irreparable damage to my social calibrations. I find myself missing simpler means.

Gippal's fault for that. Everything becomes simpler with friendship, right until the point where they shoot you.

None of the guards who have been sent with me to Luca are conversational types, so I can hardly experiment on them. Nor are there priests assigned to this mission. Any judgments for this journey will fall to me to decide as Trema's Lustrum; in this, I am acting as emissary of the Founder of New Yevon itself.

There's a power in that too. I'm just not sure I like it yet.

The implied prestige has granted me one of the more comfortable berths on this ship. While the temperatures were cool in the northern regions, the air has become steadily more sweltering by the time we have rounded the route to Luca's ports. Sticky clothes have never appealed to me. Sweat by itself is not a terrible thing; when you are training, it's expected that you begrime yourself. But when you drip just by standing around? There I draw the line.

Unfortunately, the line doesn't care where it's put. The humidity grows with each passing day of our trip. Luca is far enough south that summer explodes early, dripping its grease like a pit-roasted pig while other villages are still shoveling snow off their footpaths. We enter into it like sleepwalkers realizing too late they have wandered into an oven.

Three months from now will bring the midpoint of the year; I can only imagine how the summer will cloy the air.

Traveling south is a pilgrimage in reverse. I left Bevelle, left the temples close to Mount Gagazet, and played visitor to the smaller shrines dotting the coastlines. New Yevon wants to make sure that things are going well with the Summoners assigned at task. Even though the Aeons are gone, the dead never cease piling up, and who else to perform the Sendings?

It has taken us several weeks to arrive. I used the time to throw my formal garb overboard during the night. Going to Bikanel with my favorite green coat almost killed me in the Crimson Squad, drowning me in a misery of heat. I refuse to trundle Luca's streets while dressed like a priest.

Keeping the coat isn't much better, so I've stripped down to a light, long vest that I'm hoping will have deep enough pockets for all the secrets I am to bear. It's an idea I'm taking from Gippal's pants. For all the metal of his limbs and that fur ruff, Nooj's bodysuit was surprisingly practical. The fabric was porous enough to allow a person's skin to breathe. Paine always had to peel back the leather of her pants at the end of each day, shuck her gloves from her arms while the skin gave moist sounds of protest.

Only Gippal was untouched, and that because the Al Bhed was used to such conditions.

Bevelle is not. Bevelle does not design for tropical regions when it conjures the travesties it likes to convince us are clothes. The lighter vest-coat reaches down to my ankles and is actually based off the Djose traders. I don't look very traditional, but tradition isn't what's going to melt underneath the sun, so Trema can discipline me later about my preference for staying comfortable.

"Port in five!"

All this time spent in pointless travel and the only thing I have managed to accomplish is to think about how best to keep from sweating.

While I was able to shed a good deal of the heavier Lustrum robes through help of the sea, I did retain one of the ceremonial sashes. This, I sling around my shoulders as I prepare for disembarking. Timbers groan, releasing the smell of salt from their soaked fibers; the boat is filled with the tincture of the sea, now mixing with the tropics.

When blitzball is off-season, the pulse of the port town becomes docile. It still maintains its status as the largest center of trading, however, and to say that Luca has quieted is much like claiming a tornado is gentler than a typhoon. Boats clog the piers. The captain's muffled swears trickle down to me from the deck overhead as he paces back and forth, hating everyone and everything that gets in his way to dock.

I heard Gippal once refer to Luca as the navel of the world, the _pammo-pidduh_ of which we were all but lint. Not exactly the stuff of minstrels. Then again, Gippal never was.

I wonder what he would call it now.

Trema was serious about inflicting records upon me. The weight of the dossiers burrows to the bottom of my pack and attempts to drag me with it, causing my shoulders to ache after five minutes slung over a shoulder. Giving me a sphere would have been far lighter than this bulk. Dislike them as the Founder may, pyrefly records do have their advantages. Even though I have had the opportunity to memorize all the files by now, flipping the papers back and forth in my hands until I dreamed of faceless names until dawn, I have kept myself from reading the details. Foolishness on my part, but I suspect I am trying to stave off my meeting with Nooj as long as I can.

As we finally make it to a state of formal arrival, I hear mutters trickle through the dockhands assembled to help rope us ashore. Not all in Luca are pleased to see New Yevon's visitors. Once ships from Bevelle were revered. By the looks of it, however, we have been losing status by the day.

That is no surprise. There is a reason that the guards are the first to rally themselves down the gangplank, and that is because the danger of insurgents. Luca has not been declared a hotbed of active political clashes just yet, but some priests expect it will only be a matter of time. To lose access to the trade port would be a major blow for Bevelle. We use it as a travel stop and source of funding both, as well as a midpoint to Kilika's Temple.

So many politics, and I have no inclination for any of them just now. Vegnagun sits on my thoughts, heavy as the beast it resembles.

What a ponderous mess my life has become.

As much as I would like to shoulder past the guards and get myself to our registered inn rooms for a shower, I understand the need for patience. If there are dissenters hidden in the crowd, I would rather they clash against the armored officers than myself. Not only would a fight be socially unacceptable between a Yevon agent and a pedestrian, but I have no weapon upon me save the single machina pistol; even that was smuggled along underside my vestcoat. Sight of it would only incite gossip further. No, I decide. I can wait.

My pack rubs against me while I lean against the railing, count down the time until it is my turn to leave.

Nooj is here -- somewhere, in this very town. He has signed up for the Seekers willing to work with New Yevon and find the supposed truth that has been buried for so many years. The means by which the Seekers intend to do this is to find spheres. They are hunters, little more, but hunters can band together in packs. So long as there is a leader charismatic enough to rally them.

I have not even begun to think about what I will say to the Deathseeker's face.

The guards disperse with no sense of urgency about them. Contrary to their leisure, my feet have already started to itch. Standing exposed right in plain view on the Yevon ship strikes me as doing nothing more than demonstrating a glorified target for any gunner, and I have little desire to expose myself to Nooj before I am ready.

By the time the dock has finally cleared, it is all I can do to keep from pushing through the thinning crowd, firm-lipped. Washing up would do much to clear my head. Patience is what I like to think of as one of my stronger virtues, but even I have become restless from weeks cooped-up, unable to focus on the nemesis on my horizon.

Dodging the dock-hands is an art of the waist. I twist to the side to avoid several crates swung wide across the walkway, find myself forced to turn in yet another direction to keep from colliding with a woman hauling a sack of fish over her own shoulder. My attempt to save my pack of records leaves me pressed uncomfortably close to the damp mess of scaled bodies. Whitened eyes goggle at my intrusion; then I get my bearings, thrust a hand between myself and the net and push myself away.

I will smell like the sea for days.

"Please pardon me," I mutter quickly to the black-clad legs I bump against on my way out, the fingers of my hand still coated in fish-slime. The odor of leather that the stranger bears is a welcome change from what is rapidly becoming the ocean's rot, and I breathe it in deeply as I pass. I have little chance to thank my benefactor directly; we pass as strangers do, the crowds thick around us both while the noise of the port howls in our ears.

Wait.

I _know_ those hips.

"Paine?"


	13. Chapter 13

_Paine?_

At first I can only stare at the figure who has materialized so deftly out of space that still reeks of fishtails. My last night on the ship brought me ill dreams anew, visions that had me wake with the rough blanket kicked around my ankles. I would not be surprised if this is one of them, and the woman I fool myself to see is only a figment that will dissolve at dawn.

But red eyes stare back, equally surprised.

If this is a nightmare, then it has not yet begun to degrade. Paine has not scattered into a cloud of screaming pyreflies. Instead she stands there, every inch shocked. Dove-grey cloth is wrapped around her shoulders; the fabric bounces against the back of her legs, reined together in the form of a long tunic. She must be equally concerned about traveling incognito. That or too much black leather visible only absorbs Luca heat.

She wastes no time in speaking. "Baralai? What are you doing here? What is," she adds, gesturing to my clothes, my Yevon sash. Her fingers play like dark birds in the air, leather-clad. I should have known she would not remove her gloves, even if she tried to cover the rest with a shirt.

I grab the offending sash hurriedly and yank it off, shoving it half-into a pocket where it dangles more exposed than hidden. The bulge of it distends my pocket and I cover the evidence with a hand.

"Me?" I hurry to interrupt her before she tries to recover the rest of her broken question. Explaining why I look like a Yevon lackey is not something I think I have the wit for just now. Not while I am still trying to figure out if Paine sounded unhappy to see me, or only shocked. "What are _you_ doing in Luca? Shouldn't you be..."

Trailing off, I realize that I have no idea of how to finish my own sentence. In all honesty, I never thought of where either she or Gippal might have traveled. "You wouldn't believe the nightmares I've been having," I add instead, rather lamely, realizing only afterwards just how incriminating that phrase could be.

"Maybe I would." Amusement in milkless chocolate is Paine's voice. I have missed it. "I have them about sunsets now."

Mi'ihen.

We are both silent then, as the worries of the harbor hurry themselves around us. Sailors tromp down the wood-and-stone walkways of the port.

It is Paine who speaks first once again. She has always been more direct, like an arrow shot to pursue its target and discover the shape of it in the same motion. "Never mind all that." Neither has she ever a taste for mystery. "I came to watch the Yevon ship disembark. There were supposed to be priests on it, weren't there?"

"New Yevon." My correction is unthinking, though I have never been so careful in Bevelle. "It's New Yevon now. And there are no priests. Not on this ship."

I watch her take this news in while my eyes encompass her only at their fringes. Such news bodes ill if fully realized. Paine is no dull-wit; she understands at least part of my meaning within seconds, enough that she does not waste time in asking me how I know.

"Will there be a second vessel arriving?"

Here is the rest of my own condemnation. "No."

Her exhalation, when it comes, sighs out of her in a pursed-lipped annoyance. I am continuing to look at the upper half of her left thigh in the meantime. Paine's shirt is trimmed with a dark grey thread to form swallowtail patterns up and down her body; focusing on that, I can pretend not to consider just what my work in Bevelle might have already damned me from.

While I am aware that Paine has trained herself with the blade, and is a fair shot with a machina gun, it is always in the position of the recorder that I find myself viewing her in. This is the same now, in the way her eyes fix upon me piercingly as if they were tallying up the angles of my body for better lighting on the records. "You're it."

"I'm the one that Bevelle sent, yes." Paine never uses five words where two can do, but I prefer ladeling on the speech. Easier to obfuscate that way. "Only, I'm not a priest. I'm just here to review the Seekers who are applying here. Don't tell me that you're thinking about joining too?" I add before I can stop myself, dread pulling my face back up to hers. I did not see her name in the files. If I had, I can be sure I would have destroyed it.

Relief comes in the form of the negating shake of her head. "Join Yevon? You must be _mad,_ Baralai. Even if I didn't think that half of them would stab me in the back the second I looked away, that doesn't mean I trust what they're doing. As far as I'm concerned, anything that has to do with _them_ is just a disaster in waiting."

The gentlest clearing of my throat, and her eyes dart down to where my palm is covering the ritual sash.

There is no apology in her face when she glares back up to me. "You're not making this any better, Baralai."

"Sorry."

She tries to forgive me; I see it in the way her chin wavers, shaking back and forth once more in resignation. "How long are you planning to stay with them?"

Not making anything better indeed. If I had time to rehearse such a meeting, doubtless I would have kept a dozen lies ready on my tongue. For that matter, I would also have conducted the encounter while not in the middle of the dock. "It's not that easy, Paine." A forced interruption when we both duck away from a worker carrying a long pole of drying squid, and I continue with the stench of seafood in my nose. "I haven't found what I'm looking for from them yet. I... haven't even begun to scratch the surface -- "

"So what you're saying is that you don't know."

Paine always was good at cutting through the subtleties.

She spares me further disdain, folding her arms, the hands sliding beneath her sleeves. "I'd wondered where you went. The medic told us later... you'd taken off that morning without a word. At first I thought you only left to get breakfast early -- that you'd be bringing it back, along with extra for Gippal. I didn't think to look for you until the afternoon. And then it was too late."

Bared in such a manner, my own memories fall short. At the time it had seemed right to leave the Travel Agency so swiftly, without telling anyone; I had excused it to myself all the road down to Bevelle. Now under Paine's scrutiny, I find my own rationales lacking. "I didn't mean to -- " I begin, lowering my head, but the apology only serves to unkey the weeks latched up between us.

Teeth bare in an animal's base anger. Paine is angry, angry in the worst way of a person whose negative emotions have had their birthing from affection. The snapped retort which is growled from her throat is forced quiet to a hiss; the effort only makes her sound inhuman at first, as if she were a fiend dressed in human shape. "You barely said five words before you disappeared!" Leather-wrapped fingers clench and open spasmodically, expressing all manner of thoughts in flesh rather than sound. "And now you still won't tell me what you're up to? What are you _doing,_ Baralai?"

I rally what little survive of my wits. Even in the face of Paine's displeasure, I cannot forget the lessons that have brought us all to this desperate point of affairs. "You could get killed, Paine. You and Gippal both--we all almost died. That's why we planned to leave separately, remember? Tell me you haven't forgotten the betrayal that our own leader took upon us. We can't stay together. It would only risk us all."

The methodology of my voice is calming, meant to soothe.

Paine ignores it entirely.

"We _also_ agreed to get back in touch with each other," she challenges me with, harsh and crisp. When I wince, she knows that I had forgotten that promise. "Instead I've heard nothing from any of you. Nooj, I can understand, but I haven't seen either you _or_ Gippal. For all I knew, you could both have been killed in this search of yours. Do you know what that's been like? Not knowing if maybe we should have taken another way and stayed together?"

I can imagine. The Squad affected us all deeply; our recorder was no less touched, for all the private war we'd gone through in coming to trust one another. My fingers catch at her shirt, feeling the thin weave of it in my knuckles. "I know it's been hard. It's just... Paine, I don't want to see you get hurt again. I can take the risk myself, but you -- "

"Stop trying to treat me like I'm a defenseless child!" A hard yank, and her sleeve goes flying from my grasp. "Do you think I'm so weak, or is this just an excuse to leave me behind?"

Typical. I always seem to make her angry. Too bad Gippal is not here to consol me with what to say.

In the sudden hush, I realize that our argument has attracted the attention of every single worker on the dock. The nearby ships creak in spectator whispers. My eyes catch one man looking at me with a brow crooked in curiosity; rather than reward him with an expression back, I only return my gaze hurriedly to Paine.

"You know it's not that." It had been some time before I recognized our recorder's tendency for bravado as covering a very real heart. It had been just as long for her to realize that my elongated speech was the same. "I'm only worried. I _know_ what Bevelle is like. There are still people there who would be only too glad if we were dead. It isn't because I don't care about you, Paine." Even to my own ears, my claim sounds so thin. I do not know what else to do with it other than lay it flat as a offering. "Please trust me."

"I used to believe that." Paine's voice is as fine as a knifepoint. "Then I watched the sun go down again on the Highroad, and realized you'd left too."

I feel my blood stop.

"Just like he did."

There is no answer I can give her. Paine has frozen my tongue in the bed of my mouth.

So we stand, eye to eye, until a shout cuts the space between us.

"Well, now, _this_ is a lucky turn of events." Confidence dwells in the mouth of this speaker; its children are bred out as words. "I'd never have thought to catch you both here. If only we'd have Gippal, then this would be quite the proper reunion, wouldn't it."

I know that timbre well. Recognize it before turning my head, looking towards the new arrival with all the dull horror of the fodder-beast knowing the butcher awaits.

Nooj.

He came with no greater fanfare than that, back into my life with the same ease as he had once ruined it. Epic winds did not rise to herald his arrival. If poets were to retell it later on the stage, they would have to do so with a fierce cunning indeed to make for anything other than a backdrop of hawkers at the fish-market.

The fur ruff of his pauldron has not lost anything over the months we have been parted; if anything, it is all the more brazen, like a lion showing its victories through the thickness of its pelt. His walking stick, the same. From long experience I know just how easy it would be to knock the man down with a hook-sweep of my leg, despite all the air of command that the Deathseeker seeps from his very pores.

And yet my will is choked. It is Paine who speaks first while I am dumbfounded, struck mute by the sight of his smug pride and her own accusations.

"Gippal would be smarter than to come _here_ when Yevon is visiting," she says, and continents could smother in the glacier chill of her gaze.

Nooj does not seem impressed. Shame. "And what does that say about you two?" Not waiting for an answer, the Deathseeker nudges his cane to the side; whether the spreading of his shoulders is conscious or no, he still looms like a cobra on display. "So... where _is_ our errant Al Bhed? The Thunder Plains, maybe? He could attract lightning with his hair, that's what I've always said. How else has it managed to stay up?"

Paine clamps her mouth shut, refusing to volunteer more. The next parry falls to me by default. I am the speaker of the group, too loose with my words by far. Such is the normal case. Right now, I count myself lucky to manage a token resistance. "You have no business here right now, Nooj. I think you should leave."

All my time for preparation, and those plain phrases are all I can think to manage.

Trema would die laughing at his Lustrum's lack of wit.

"You're so confident to tell me what I can and cannot do with my time, Baralai." In defiance of any threat I might pose, Nooj turns his body further, paces a step away from me. That brings him closer to Paine. I do not like that. "On the contrary, though, I have plenty of reason to be in Luca. I'm sure you've heard of the Seekers? A noble quest indeed," he muses, "to unearth the locked secrets which Yevon has kept from Spira all this while. I think we can all sympathize with _that._"

"Maybe Yevon had a good reason not to share." That answer is hastier than I would normally like; under most circumstances, I would agree with Nooj, but for that I am possessed by the urge to defend even Bevelle from this man. "Or maybe they just realized there were some people who should never have that information."

Nooj has my case in an instant when I speak, and we both know it. "So are you saying you agree with what they did? With what they've done to us all? A thousand years of lies, Baralai, and it's all made better because some people might not have bowed their backs as deeply as the Maesters wanted them to?"

The Deathseeker has the gift of speech. Rather, he has the knack for rallying troops; I can hear it already in the way my own common sense yearns to bend to the other man's logic. But this is no battlefield. The only squadrons called to task would be those of mobs.

Instead, I find enough bitterness beneath my soul to stand upon, find solid ground. From there I take my stance. "Don't put words in my mouth, Nooj."

"They're the only honest ones I can count on that way. How about you, Paine?" Mi'ihen's champion turns his well-honed charm upon our recorder. History could have vanished entirely in truth to consider how he looks at her; there is no sign of the lethal aim he had turned upon us, not now.

Thankfully enough, Paine does not reply.

When he is given only silence on her part, Nooj turns away from Paine and swivels a look far more intent upon me. "What we saw down there was an answer, Baralai. You know that as well as I." Hissed comes his breath, mixing with the ghosts of exhalations made here but a few scant seconds ago. "I won't let you or anyone else get in the way of it."

"An answer?" I twitch a brow with more confidence than I think I feel. "For yourself, or for others?"

"Well." His smile is thin-lipped. Whatever barb may have landed through my retort, I care not; it served its purpose just in getting the Deathseeker to draw his posture back. "We'll just have to see which one of us gets to it first."

Goaded beyond my best instincts, I find my hand twisting; the bunched fabric of the Yevon sash comes visible in the fist of my fingers. It rises like Sin out of the oceans itself, brandished like the bloody mark of a murder-rag. "Or maybe you won't be able to get to it at all."

If I'd hoped to cow Nooj, my hopes should have been strangled in the cradle. Amusement is the only reaction on the Deathseeker's face as he pieces the evidence together. "So... you're the Yevon flunky who's been sent here? I expected more from you, Baralai. Pity. I suppose I know just what kind of results I'll be getting for my petition for membership." With that, at last, Nooj turns his head fully away. His cane thumps on the dock as he begins to haul himself away. "It's too bad, Baralai. I wouldn't have thought you to sell out to them so easily."

An angry man might have spit a threat back to that. I keep my words locked in my mouth and swallow them down to drown in the bile of my stomach instead.

I think I just might hate him.


	14. Chapter 14

The pair of us witness Nooj's departure in silence, the long crooked tail of his hair waggling like a particularly sated cat. Sailors part before him like paid mourners. Several of them cast glances back to us, then to Nooj, then back to where we stand once more. Rumors must paint a thick-blooded myth already for some of their imaginations. Split lovers, maybe. Or deathly grudges.

I don't think they're entirely wrong about the latter either.

Paine wastes no time in any of that. She could care less for who might be watching us, making stories out of our bodies to pass their own hours at sea. Another long breath melts from her lips, and then she forms it into phrases wondering. "So. He was here after all."

This causes me to blink, even in the numb nausea left behind by Nooj's passing, Paine's accusations of abandonment. "You... _expected_ to run into him?"

And Paine accuses _me_ of holding secrets.

"Naturally." She shifts her weight to the side, her hips lounging atop the pillar of her leg. "The Seekers have been gathering here for weeks to wait for their formal approvals. Otherwise they'd just be considered thieves. Hunters for profit. I figured Nooj would be attracted to such an opportunity. That's why I came to Luca--to see him. You," she adds, plain-voiced and practical, "were a surprise."

Those statements throw my heart against my chest in a lurch like that of a drunken shiphand. Why? Why should it bother me? Logic would have it that Paine would follow the reasonable course of action above all else, and that would be to seek out the man who shot the rest of our Team. Herself included.

Logic does nothing to explain just why I feel so sick right now.

The cloth in my hand lowers, stuffing itself back into my pocket of its own accord. The embroidered weight of Bevelle goes smug into hiding.

I'd expected harsh words from Nooj; being sneered at for joining Yevon had been among the reactions I'd figured on the part of the Deathseeker. His contempt shouldn't matter to me, not anymore. Hoping for respect from a man who has left you with twinned scars on your back and chest like a stuck roast is like hoping for Yu Yevon himself to come and apologize for Operation Mi'ihen.

It shouldn't matter to me. But it does.

Paine is a different story altogether. I knew she wouldn't approve of my return to Bevelle. Even I knew it was tantamount to a suicide mission, my wits the only weapon for defense and my soul the only coin for paying my way deeper into Yevon's mysteries. It would have taken too much time if I'd explained to her and Gippal. One or both of them would have tried to stop me; that or their curiosity would have led them back to Bevelle's waterways if only to check up on how I was doing, and then they would have been caught. Everything would have fallen apart.

That conclusion had burned in my mind like a brand all the way up my road to Guadosalam and Seymour's door. There hadn't been any time to waste; every day spent recovering was just another day for the opportunity of Kinoc's death to slip away, gone before I could capitalize upon it. Seymour would have never given credence to my claim of betrayal if I'd arrived with a party of recorder and machinist on my heels. He'd have thought we served for vengeance, not ambition.

And ambition was what Seymour understood.

So I spoke in his tongue then, using our mutual dialect in barter-trade; now I wish I could do the same so easily with Paine, whom I have never been able to negotiate with properly. On Bikanel, I needed Gippal's advice. Even Nooj, after a fashion. What the four of us managed to do in working together, I can't recover on my own.

Knowing the disaster waiting, I try to forge ahead. My voice founders like a horse in deep snow. I ignore it. "What are you planning to do with Nooj now that you've found him?"

Paine hears the detachment in my voice, recognizes my forced indifference for what it is. It stings her; I knew it would, but couldn't keep myself from acting otherwise. "I'm not sure. I never planned on trying to..." Her words falter, but she continues, "To try and kill him, even after everything that's happened. He must have a reason, Baralai. Something down there that you all saw that's changed everyone like this. Even Gippal didn't want to talk about it, and it's almost impossible to get him to stop chattering about anything."

I want to respond to the uncertainty that she is now showing me inadvertent, like a woman unaware that the silk of her underclothes is visible out the lip of her skirt. I want to do this. Paine rarely lets anyone see her uncertain and even then she tries to brush it off quickly; I want to give her assurance, I _tell_ myself that I want to, but it feels like every inch of me is cold as ice.

"And how are you going to know if Nooj is just going to lie to you again so that you'll trust him, Paine?"

This strikes her. She folds her arms in a tight line across her chest, replies harshly now that I have begun to fight her. "It's not as if you're telling me the truth about this either, _Baralai_." My name in her invocation is a thing bordering on bitter. Paine continues to challenge me in the same breath. "Why won't you?"

I exhale my own impatience with all of Spira out in a sharp sigh. "Because there are people who will kill for this information, Paine. I know you can take care of yourself," I continue, lifting my hand to forestall her own protest, "but Maester Kinoc and the instructors wanted us dead. Nooj did as well. Until I know if this is a false lead or not, I don't want to jeopardize anyone. If I die, that's one thing... but I don't know who else will get drawn into this. We've already lost Gippal. Don't you think I worry that you're next?"

Silence between us, as nearby gulls cry and squabble for a dropped piece of squid.

"That's the stupidest thing I've heard for a while, Baralai."

I accept this rather than trying to fight her verdict, turning my face away with a twist of a smile. "You didn't like our decision to split up from the beginning, if I remember it right."

"Look how much success we've had by following it." Paine cannot hide her features by tilting them towards the ground; her bangs are pinned swept-up, and they do nothing to conceal her eyes as she focuses on the ground. "Do you mean it? Is... Gippal really..."

"The Guado attacked the Al Bhed's home in the desert, Paine. I've read the death toll," I say, gently. I do not bother to explain just how I heard the information, buzzing in Guadosalam as it was and smug upon Seymour's lips. "No one's seen him since."

Paine does not inquire either. Instead she just gives a toss of her head, like a horse weary of the draft traces. She does not look at me when she makes her next statement, a flat tone-dead defenses. "And knowing that's supposed to make me let you go too, is it?"

We're not making sense to each other. I don't think we're even making sense to ourselves, but I don't know what else I can do. "Listen, Paine," I say instead, and look back towards the face of a woman I have seen a dozen times dissolving in my dreams. "This isn't a good time to talk about this. If I don't show up at the inn soon, the guards will come looking to make sure I'm all right. Okay?" Every inch of hope for reconciliation, I force into the patience of my words. "I'll try to see you again before we have to leave. Can you wait that long?"

"Can you give me a time?" Always practical, Paine, but now there's a harder edge in her voice that wasn't there six months ago when first I knew her. "A place?"

Either is impossible. I am wary of making those kinds of estimates for future meeting times when the port is full of Seekers-in-waiting and Bevelle's guards, Luca traders and dissidents. "I only wish I could. If I can't find you, then I'll come looking again here as soon as I'm able. On the next ship picking up spheres to Bevelle," I add, hoping that I could turn this thin wish into a reality and knowing even as I said it that the odds were even more slim than now. "I'll come then. Look for me."

Maybe I could ask Trema. Maybe I could find something else to trade to him. Surely there is some task that might be exchanged for a small favor of attending a regular trade vessel. Or perhaps I can lie and say that I am only paranoid about Nooj, that I want to check surveillance of the man directly to make certain the Deathseeker is not winning in his schemes.

I do not know what I can yet use, but the hope in me simmers. I do not want to lose Paine to distrust, but that is the only thing keeping us all alive so long as the Deathseeker is still searching for Vegnagun. We went through too much in the desert to let it all go now.

Even as I think that, I realize I am already falling into the trap of wanting so desperately to give away all my discretion, and instead cling to the distraction that is friendship.

I can't let myself do that.

Paine is unconvinced of my offer. Her lips purse; I see her unwillingness to place faith in something so nebulous as the future, a thing that could change as easily as the wind. She never used to be so concerned before. Then again, she is hardly fearful now.

Colder, maybe. Harder.

I take myself out of the spell of watching her, my own habits of measuring up a woman I remember having the same expression while we all argued over a missions assignment folder one evening. "Can you give me one thing, Paine?" Hesitation will get me nowhere, but not saying this would be worse. "Promise me you won't get near Nooj."

Paine's eyes are red spheres shining when she pins me upon their gaze. "Only if you promise _me_ you won't sell out to Yevon."

If time spliced itself to months ago on a ship halfway between here and a desert hell, Paine might be making a mockery of herself; then, she had dared me to be something more than conservative. Now neither of us like the results but life is not a record. It has no rewind feature.

Even before I think to answer aloud, I am already shaking my head in negation. Working for Trema has already begun to take me down a path that is radically different than the traditions of the priests of the past; the former Maesters may have hidden history, but never have they destroyed it with the same uncaring ease that I have seen the Founder perform. Trema's stamp will be the direction that Bevelle will take, for all that it will be disguised under Yevon's name. Explaining that, however, would only put Paine in greater danger.

So I err on the side of caution. "I don't know the future, Paine," and I spread my hands as I do so, showing the palms in a gesture of helplessness that we both know is an absolute lie. "I'm sorry."

She watches me, the recorder in her still measuring me onto seconds of sphere-time.

"Then I give no guarantees."

Her footsteps are hard clacks on the stone of the dock, boot-heels staccato. I listen to them fade until they are absorbed into the noise of the port, gone into ghosts of memory even while I am straining to hear just one more step.

The journey to the inn dissolves after that, minutes time-lapsed and deemed unimportant to the final documentary. I am lucky enough to encounter two guards while I am but a few steps away from the ivory-stoned building. They had worried over my delay. I shake my head to assure them, and let the pair fall into escort beside me while I check in at the registry book and scrawl my name on the appropriate line. Baralai, Lustrum of the Founder Trema. In service to New Yevon.

The innkeeper bows to me when I set the ink-stub down, palms going parallel in the full style of reverence. He and his family are old followers of Yevon. I find this out later over dinner, which largely consists of chunks of sliced apples mixed with nuts and greens. The innkeeper's wife hovers over me with the dishtowel wrung in her hands until I realize she is waiting to hear how I find the dinner, and then I remember to compliment her for having fruit this early in the year. This causes her to bob her head in thanks before hurrying to other work, but she returns often to check upon the state of my plate.

Unsurprisingly, I have very little appetite.

The salad is forced into my stomach to keep from accidental insult. I drink water to try and wash it all down despite the way that my throat tries to reject anything put through it; refusing seconds of the meal brings a flicker of worry to the innwife's face before I blame my lack of hunger on the long sea voyage.

By the same token I call my own departure from the table before the guards have finished their own meals. A bath would do me well after the trip closeted on the ocean; I have managed to wash up during our brief visits on landfall, but between the sweat and strife of the day, I am possessed by the urge to slough off my own skin.

The taps run hot water and cold in equal, perfect temperatures upon twisting. Luca has numerous advantages upon Bevelle; one of them would have to be the abundance of physical luxuries. Bevelle may indulge in certain whims, but most of which center around a mental thirst for complication; here in the trading port, people only want to have a filling dinner and bath afterwards before they sit down with their families and friends for a round of evening games.

_Pammo-pidduh_ of the world indeed. The Luca night is warm and lush with so many living bodies about on their business, sounds of foot traffic heavy even through the evening. I yank the curtains of my windows back and push them open so that I can breathe in the breeze.

Tomorrow will be a day full of interviews and reports. Somewhere in the line-up will be a certain Deathseeker, his confidence already well-prepared and ready. I doubt he would just rescind his application after seeing me. No, he is likely betting on my automatic refusal, hoping to turn it into a form of proof against Yevon's willingness to find the truth.

Truth. What an irony that is, to have the Deathseeker who lied to us all turn around and try to play at being a champion of such an ideal.

Two can play this game, even where four have lost. Even when I think I am losing still. Especially then.


	15. Chapter 15

_The air is full of fish, scales rippling with light as they swim through the sky as easily as the ocean. Paine is shaking her head in my direction again and again. Her fingers fold on her crossed arms tight enough for the leather to protest._

_The air is full of fish dancing, and I realize it is not me she is bothering to chide anymore._

_Because I am gone._

I wake twitching.

Lucky enough to have a room by myself; the guards are housed together further down the hall, and no one has seen fit to establish a watch directly outside my door. If my sleeping habits are irregular, then none of them need know.

Leaving my window open overnight has resulted in curtains tangled around the latches. Gulls cry; the seaport is swathed in the grey light of dawn, but I can already hear pedestrians in motion, bantering back and forth in easy familiarity while they pass.

The innkeeper has breakfast out early. Luca, for all its luxury, rises no later than Bevelle; there is much to do before the heat of the day washes in even during this bridging between winter and spring, and the sooner one takes advantage of the cooler hours, the better. Breakfast here does not serve the purpose of trying to warm one's bones from pelting up and down ice-covered walkways. It is meant to remind a person that they are awake, alive, and above all, late for opening up their shops.

There is no communal morning gathering in Luca. After dipping a handtowel into the basin of water provided and scrubbing my face, I collect my satchel and head down the stairs. A few of the guards are already awake. I pass their assembly during my descent; two of them are still rumpled in hair and clothing both, one still dressed in white linen sleepware, and they flick embarrassed looks in my direction for their being out of uniform.

Rather than disapprove, I only return their unspoken apologies with a curious smile of my own. The guards look vulnerable without their heavy jackets, their sheets of body armor sewn into cloth folds. There is something very out of key with them this morning and I cannot figure it out; lingering on the stairwell, I watch as one guard fumbles in his pocket and passes over a comb to another.

Then I realize that my greatest shock comes from actually noticing their features. Lacking their helmets and machina guns, the protectors of Bevelle are reduced to mere humans again.

One of them can't be any older than I am.

I have never noticed that before.

The central sitting room is empty of any formal diners. A few other guests make their appearance as I stand in a doorway, entering from opposite halls just long enough to scoop up breakfast before exiting once more. I fiddle with a final button of my clothes and proceed to do the same.

Slices of melon have been left out alongside a few thin-pressed breads, light and cracking when I take a bite from one. Fresh coffee has been provided, but Luca's tastes run for a bitter draught in the morning, rather than Bevelle's more soothing sugar. In the port town you are expected to be about your business and eat during the breaks at market, rather than congregating during bell chimes at the dining halls.

The innkeeper's wife sees me foraging at the table; she asks me how I slept, and I answer her with a pleasant nod and assurances that all went well.

Yevon may not have an official temple in Luca, but there remain buildings of estate that business has been conducted in over the years. While Bevelle has fallen out of natural favor and no longer possesses the same mystic reverence as it used to, having a place to go is far better than trying to set up a table on the sidewalks and attempting to review Seekers there.

I squirrel away two pieces of the cracker-bread into a pocket of my vest-coat, wrapped in a cloth napkin to keep them from crumbling too much into the lining. The humidity of the air has already started to hint at the cloying temperatures of noon. When I step outside, the first breath I draw comes flush with seaside damp.

A number of guards have rallied themselves to stand outside the inn. One of them is in the process of yawning noisily when I exit. He covers his mouth with a hasty palm; another guard gives him a sharp elbow in the side. The minor scuffle engages itself with muffled laughter, a few low words, and then the machina squad falls into line automatically around me.

The novelty of being protected by Bevelle guards rather than harassed by them is encouraging enough that I find myself enjoying the stone roads we walk on down towards the review hall.

I have been given the keys to the outer door of the building; pausing at the entrance to unlatch the bolts and throw them back, I leave the wooden portal open to allow the fresh breeze to pass within, unhindered by the guards.

Hours pass in ease while I am surrounded by paperwork. The satchel is emptied, contents spread across the wide desk provided. Yevon's last priest had a tendency to doodle while his thoughts wandered. I can see the scribbles faint remaining in the grain of the woodwork.

The first applicant arrives on schedule, at the tenth hour of the morning. All too soon there is a line forming at the door, stretching out around the corner judging from how they are leaning against the windows. Bevelle's guards know their business better than I do, automatically ordering the queue and relaying my requests for the next visitor once I finish the current's file.

Each time that they interrogate the line for their identity and call it back to me where I sit, I sort through the applications for that chosen name. Originally I had sectioned out the dossiers into plausible and implausible recruits, but that left me pawing through both sides in search. After the first ten have been processed, I have simply collapsed the files into one pile and attempted a haphazard organization while between interviewees. Not the most efficient means, perhaps, but it lends itself well to the mixed leisure and practicality of the Luca day.

A number of the applicants are experienced warriors. The majority are young; still fresh enough that they had been raised with hope of the Crusaders or some fiend-hunting in mind. With Sin no longer collecting pyreflies into malicious shapes, the fiend count has dropped dramatically. Natural enthusiasm has been squandered as a result, and so those who were expecting a life of hard battles have little else to do but apply themselves to the role of Seeker instead.

Very few of those attempting to join have reasons for Yevon to turn them away. I go through the questions mechanically, double-checking each hopeful for veracity. It leaves my mind free to wander, and my thoughts find themselves circling back to one person eternal.

Paine is right. What I think is the best way to handle this Vegnagun mystery might only be an attempt to keep from the riskier path, that of trying to keep both my relationship with her as well as her life intact. By Paine's standards, I must sound like a pompous ass. Or cowardly.

I have been taking the safe route after all.

But it is safe because I know it best, and trying to deny my own talents would be equal foolishness.

Sourness fills my hand as I methodically stamp the approval mark upon each application, my signature looped again and again on the designated line. It should rightfully be a priest who is here, authorizing the acts of these Seekers who will go out into the world and loot or war if they feel it right. All in pursuit of the truth -- the truth that will only be eliminated once it has been brought back to Bevelle, erased so that Spira can move into a future without ever looking back at Sin.

Am I truly willing to sacrifice the past in exchange for my goals? Trema said that the High Summoner Yuna was able to destroy Sin because she was willing to forsake even the religion that had given her life its very definition. Such an ability to abandon all values of the past and forge ahead through uncertainty, keeping only the final destination fixed in sight--is that not what I do now?

At the cost of my own time with Paine. Everything being weighed on various scales has given me unsteady measurements. I don't know what to trade.

Perhaps we will never be reconciled. I simply don't know.

When I finally hear Nooj's name being heralded to me across the hall, it seems a poor climax to a day I have already deemed empty. A conclusion forgone, steeped in the stigma of Vegnagun that has divided our Team to nothingness.

Dutifully, I reach out my hand and flip to the alphabetical section containing his identity.

The Deathseeker approaches with a smirk already fixed upon his features. I have seen such a look intimidate Yevon instructors before, face down other Teams. This time it is meant for me.

Knowing that does not make it the easier to ignore such a force of charisma. There can be no chances of foul play here; the guards would stop Nooj before he even pulled a weapon. Awareness of this fills me with a strange calm.

I have become very good at feeling nothing recently.

He greets me first. "Yevon." The barest dip of his head in acknowledgement that I am a living being sitting here. The word is a harsh depersonalization. I have no doubt that he intended such deliberately.

"Nooj."

The Deathseeker's cane shifts in his hand, twisting against the ground with a small squeak.

"It says here that your interest in serving New Yevon," I cannot help applying emphasis to the proper title of recent Bevelle, "stems from a desire to share the truth with all." The edge of the paper in my hand lowers; I give him the barest glance, eyes narrowed in a blatant skepticism. "And that you wish nothing more than for Spira's people to benefit from a mutual growth through knowledge."

He wastes no effort on dissembling. "That is correct."

I reach for the stamps, dip one in ink and slam it on his paperwork.

"Approved."

So confident was the man that I would refuse him that it takes a visible second for the result to sink in. I enjoy seeing the change on his features.

"Why?" This word is hissed; Nooj has progressed from perverse satisfaction to surprise, to an expression that resembles muted horror. "Baralai, _why_ did you approve me?"

This response is stranger than I expected. I assumed that in his game, he had been hoping for rejection so that he could assume the angle of the one slighted by Bevelle, a figurehead of proof that Yevon was still retaining its secrets despite its claim to accept all types of Seekers. He could use refusal as a healthy means to his end. Start a mob of his own, or a counter-organization, righteous indignation on his side.

By authorizing him as a Seeker, I imagined that his advantage would be destroyed before he even began to gather it. He should have been upset. I assumed as much.

But not this. This is a depth in his eyes I have not seen before.

No, my mind corrects itself. I have seen it after the loss of Team Four at Bikanel, when he was pacing our tent in frustration trying to think of a way to save us all from the instructors.

I do not understand.

"Would you like me to cancel your application?" To my credit, I school my own voice to a cold practicality, tinged with a shadow of bemusement. Fingers shift back to where the stamps wait, touch the rejection mark just waiting to be used.

Vulnerability vanishes from Nooj's face. "No." Now all is back to right again; his cocked confidence addressing every inch of his body. "I think that's just fine. _Excellent_ work, Baralai."

I resist the urge to bristle as he turns the conversation once more, delivers me with unwanted approval as if he were still Team leader. Instead, I set his dossier to the side without a second glance. "Next!"

As the guards busy themselves with query to the line, I watch Nooj hobble out of the hall. His shoulders are as straight as an architect's rule despite his limp. There is no sign of anything other than absolute surety.

Why indeed.

More accurately, why did Nooj look so desperate?

Is there something in Yevon that he is afraid of? Something that he does not want to find him? I cannot think of any reason why Nooj would fear his own doom. He played at desiring it in order to make the rest of our Team protective of him, lied about his own deathwish so he could catch us off-guard and shoot us all later. But never has he seemed so stricken on the subject, false or otherwise.

Why would a man kill in the pursuit of an object he didn't want? Or has he joined the Seekers for another reason than to hunt Vegnagun?

There are no answers to these questions. Even if I had them, I know my path would be unchanged. Trema has information about Vegnagun that I further require, and now that I have performed this task for him, I must be allowed to inquire for more.

So be it.

When I return to Bevelle, slogging underneath the snow-smothered gates with my guardsmen in tow, the last news I expect to hear is that of a murder.


	16. Chapter 16

The war of seasons has been fought and won while I was abroad. Bevelle has moved on without me in my absence. Nothing better serves to drive the point in hard that you are expendable than to return home and see that not even nature has bothered to wait.

Winter's harsh fury has lessened during my travels away. Cooler still than Luca, which is a blessing after the heat of the port. At first I welcomed the temperatures. Then I had to stay there for a week. Returning to Bevelle has brought some of the summer-port's clime with us; there is snow, but it hunkers down in mud-stained clumps at the sides of walkways rather than encompassing them in full.

That snow, I find out later, had not receded quickly enough to save one man's life.

Dopha recalls the story in bits and pieces to me over breakfast. Huddled together on the bench near to the firehearth, he waves the crust of bread clutched in his fingers to embellish the tale.

"They'd have called it an accident, save for the guards stationed by the West Gate of the Lustrates," he enunciates through a mouthful of crumbs. Around us, serving dishes clatter as the cooks carry trays back and forth from the kitchens. We sit close enough to the side doors that the air is mixed with ash and greasefat, tinged with the firepits of kitchen and dining hall alike.

For once, the hall is more empty than it is full. The priests tend to their own business. No one has cleared their throat imperiously, begun to hand out assignments for the daily chores. All of Bevelle moves in a void; private, individualized, and very much alone.

"But the pair of them, they said--"

"One moment." After three unsuccessful attempts to wave down one of the maids, I finally resort to standing, physically blocking the path of the nearest with my arm. She looks to me with no fair amount of surprise for my interruption. Then her eyes progress past me to Dopha, back to myself once more, and the tray in her arms shudders with a tight-knit surprise.

I reach out to claim the flagon of coffee for myself, apologizing quietly before retaking my seat.

Dopha's face is sympathetic. "They've been like that ever since. The staff," he explains, with a nod to the already-retreating back of the woman. "It's because of Gella's priest. Baralai, they found him at the bottom of the East Lustrates. He'd fallen along the long flights. All the way down," the Lustrum adds, pasty-faced mournfulness, "to the courtyard level."

Mental recollection of the details brings to me a distance of greater than three floors. I do not need to ask how the guards must have known the priest was dead. Anything that could have survived that manner of descent, jostling against the stone-hewed steps, would have certainly been a fiend afterwards if not before.

"Didn't they blame the weather?" Attempting to keep from premature conclusions, I instead reach my hand out to hook the dish of butter. It slides across the table with a rattle. I liberate it of a knife and proceed to dollop the substance onto my own slice of bread. "It would be more surprising if no accidents happened at all in winter, considering the conditions here."

"They might have." Dopha's agreement was pensive. "But the guards on the West Gate said they saw Somasil at approximately that hour. He was with Gella, both in a rush. The watchers didn't stop them since they were going back to the Lustrates -- I suppose it made sense, since it was evening and time to retire for sleep -- but they noticed that the two looked as if they had been arguing. The body was discovered only a few hours later. After the watchmen reported, the priests called a search for Gella and Somasil both. That's what they're telling us, at least," he added, glum. "What really happened, only Gella, Somasil, and the guards know, and the chances of us finding out the truth are slim at best."

At last, I understand just why Dopha and myself are given such a wide berth in this morning meal. We are Lustrum acolytes. No one in their right mind wants to be near to a Bevelle conspiracy, whether the guilt is real or falsified.

I am very careful while I finish buttering my toast, and set the knife down on its dish with a precise metal click.

Dopha continues to volunteer information now that he has already begun his confession of the tale, scholar's detachment stripping any mystery from the whole. "So far, they've only caught Gella. The pair of them were both in her room, packing everything she had a rush. They say that she didn't struggle at all, but Somasil fought like a madman, broke one of the lampstands and used it as a staff. Half of them split off to chase him. The rest brought Gella down to be imprisoned until further interrogation. They've... they've put her in the Gaol, Baralai."

Talk of the Gaol brings to mind the heavy, sharp tang of rusting metal. I have only visited the chamber twice, both times in exploration. Both times were visits too many. The cages swing like overripe fruits on iron boughs; I do not care to imagine any of the Lustrum there.

"How long ago was that?"

"A few days. The guards that were to take Somasil haven't returned yet either. It's assumed that he's fled into the Underground. They have watchmen posted on the entrances that are known, priests on the more private lifts, but no one knows where _everything_ is in this place." Now Dopha's voice has returned to a semblance of normal; any discussion of disordered information gives him that wheedle, the affronted injustice that a universe was not in perfect categorization. "It could be that he's already found a way out. I just don't know _how_."

"Lady Yuna found one, when she was sentenced to her death in the Via Purifico." The words slip free from my lips with the same ease as a sleepwalker finding a cliff to fall from, unaware that their dream of flying is in actuality a doom. "She escaped Bevelle and all its priests, continuing her pilgrimage to Zanarkand despite them."

Such a statement causes Dopha to look at me with some surprise. "I didn't know you were an enthusiast of the High Summoner."

By his tone, I'd imagine he thought me to be another of the enamored crowd which jostle for paintings to hang upon their walls, Yuna's smile gleaming back from every possible angle. Having someone watching me like that could give me even more nightmares. "I've been recently told to study her." Neutral is my hand while I pick up my toast and take a bite from it, then drinking from my coffee to wash the meal down. "More importantly... do you think Somasil did it?"

Return to the more somber conversation takes some of the enthusiasm back out of Dopha; his shoulders deflate, slump. "The priests certainly believe so. Most claim they expected such an act from him. They cite his temper, saying that everyone knew him to be off-balance. Even you've seen how angry he's been lately, Baralai." Dopha's chin jerks up towards me. "He almost broke your jaw just in a training spar."

I am already shaking my head, dismissing the memory of bandages and salves. "They've been waiting to blame something like this on him for a while, Dopha. We all saw it. In fact... even those of us in the Lustrum have been avoiding him, haven't we." The statement comes out flat. Not a question. "We knew he was under their eye."

Far too late to consider if doing otherwise could have changed anything. The Lustrum acolytes have acted like cattle, separating themselves from the one they fear is sick--and I am as guilty as the rest of them.

Though I justified it on not wanting to be involved, the end arrived regardless.

"It gets even more complicated." Dopha wags his cup at me in warning. "They're not getting any information about Somasil from Gella, and Somasil himself hasn't appeared either. Not only that, but Gella's claimed to them that _she_ pushed her priest off." Ceramic thunks against the table as the man sets his mug down for punctuation. "The priests who believe the matter to be Somasil's fault insist that he's still committed a wrongdoing by attacking the guards who came for her. Until he's found, they're both under suspicion anyway."

"They're trying to save one another. But they'll fail," I find myself saying, more sharply than I intend. "Both of them will only be destroyed that way."

Dopha stares at me. "Baralai."

My name in his mouth is a word abandoned, wandering.

I glance at him then, hearing my voice repeat in bitter echo. My heart twists unaccountably. Pressing a palm against my sternum, I set my coffee down and resolve not to have another cup. "You'll have to forgive me, Dopha. I've had... some problems recently with relationships."

His look, I think, contains some sympathy after that.

"What do you think will happen to them?"

"I wish I could say I knew." Using my crust to sop up a trace of spilled jam from my plate, I push the remains of my breakfast back and stand. "I'll speak with Trema."

First comes the visit to my room.

The delay is acceptable. Hurrying along the walkways from the Lustrates to the Founder's tower brings me past several pairs of guards, many of whom snap their eyes to me in attention. I can feel them tracking my path. Perhaps they will part from their posts to search the stairwells, wondering if I, too, have just killed a priest of my own.

There is no attention to spare upon them. Running exacerbates the illness burbling in my chest, inside my stomach where it fights with the morning breakfast fare. I do not know if this sickness in my heart is dread -- or worse, anger. It is a miasma that festers inside the twin scars on my body and makes me impatient to change this slow crumbling of my life.

I am over-familiar with the taste of despair.

All that beats in my mind now is the desire to see the pattern of authority shattered. If Yevon were not so steeped in manipulations, none of us would have to scurry like this in futile attempts to hide ourselves. We would not have to count how many guards are paid to spy upon us, and check to see how many times our rooms have been searched during meal hours.

If the priests were gone, I would not have to fear for Paine so much.

The Lustrum are the newer generation of Yevon. They stand to inherit the mantles of office. At its heart, this conflict is a clash of power. Age-old dominance has set in stone the foundation of Yevon's hierarchy, teaching us all that we can never overcome the dictates of our past.

It might well be that this would be a chance to break tradition by sending the message to the younger priests that control is within their grasp.

And the younger priests would not persecute Paine, not as familiar with me as they are. Nor would they seek to play with her. They are already resentful of games that have removed their own friends under the pretense of Yevon's justice; they would not do the same against one they believe to be their ally.

Namely, me.

If the younger Lustrum were to succeed to full priesthood while bearing a desire to resist their elders, it might be possible to alter New Yevon in truth.

And I would no longer have to force Paine away.

These thoughts keep me company as I pelt through the halls. The guards waiting on either side of the Founder's lift scarce give me pause; I ignore them and their abbreviated queries for my business and if I have an appointment. They give way when I bat the machina barrel of one weapon out of my path and key in the activation for the lift.

As the machina platform rises, I remember the faces of the guards that attended me to Luca, and regret my rude haste.

I take the stairs up the tower quickly, my head buzzing. Running all over Bevelle might have delayed me, but the stop to my room was worth it. If the Founder is as resolute about changing the destiny of New Yevon as he would like to convince me, then I have no better card to play; if this attempt does not work, I cannot imagine what else could.

The weight in my inner pocket bounces against my chest with each step.

Barely a knock to announce my presence before I push the doors open, a straight-armed thrust that leaves me standing center, breathless. "Trema." Then I catch myself and some of my wits in the bargain. "My lord."

The target of my informality is seated facing towards one of the shelves, having rolled his chair over to the wall. At my intrusion he looks up. If ever I might see Trema surprised, today would not be that time; if anything, the Founder seems amused by my state of dishevel. "Such enthusiasm, mm... _befits_ you, Baralai. And how _was_ your trip to Luca? It must have been so exciting that you wanted to save all the tale for me, and not grant anyone else a single word."

I knew I would get into trouble for not handing in a report on the Seeker results.

Considering that I have come back alive from the city, and hence in theory did not get killed during a furious confrontation with Nooj, I let the matter pass for now. It is a secondary concern. I can file the approved dossiers later.

"My lord, you must have heard about the trouble with the Lustrum." Crossing the room in hard thumps of my boots against the carpet, I place my hands upon his desk. The wood is a dark moat of mahogany between us; Trema regards me from the other side, impassive and deadly as a crocodile.

"And what of it?"

I temper the volume of my words even as I shape them; the haste by which I do is well-timed, for they come out loud even with my best efforts. "If you speak the truth by wishing for a new future, my lord, you will have to allow the Lustrum to win through this. Gella must be freed. Give Somasil a banishment at worst -- blame the weather, ill luck, fiends. Anything, but let the Lustrum know you are on their side." My hands have formed into fists at my side. Carefully, I relax them. "You must take advantage of this opportunity to let the acolytes see the future that you offer them. Otherwise, their spirits will be broken by this. They will learn only that they can change _nothing_. New Yevon will be little better than a sham."

Silence breeches the study after my long string of declarations. I consider it; it stares back at me, and we are mutually astonished at how much I have said.

Trema waits for a span of minutes before he deigns to answer.

"You cannot propose that I simply overturn all justice to fit your whims, Baralai. I would be accused of favoring you -- and rightfully so, in this situation." A whisper of pages, and Trema closes the book in his lap, slides it back into place on the shelf near to his elbow. "What reason would I have to use such a... mm, _dramatic_ means to my ends?"

"This."

The chime of the sphere is a hollow thunk as I set it upon the table.

Replay of this particular memory is a painful one. With that in mind, I do not thumb the playback on. In all the time I have concealed the sphere in the stonework of my room's hearth, I do not think I expected to sell it like this. It is the only memento I possess that clearly shows Yevon's betrayal of my Team. The record is enough to grant me clemency in a dozen villages hostile to Bevelle, and more.

It is the only thing I have left of value that I can trade.

"That?" Trema's clipped parody of my offer rings in an ancient's mockery. "_That_ is only a sphere, Baralai. Of great import to you, I have no doubt," he adds, squinting at the tell-tale crimson light that marks a Squad crystal, "but, ah... hardly worth _my_ consideration as anything other than a collection of pyreflies."

"Accept it as a token of my willingness to help you," I retort, tuning my voice to a reasonable degree. "You have left me alive for that reason. I know about Vegnagun. I have lost everything else about my life by staying here in search of it. You have spoken to me about the need to leave the past behind--now I am asking you to prove your beliefs in turn. If I can surrender so much of my own history to New Yevon, then surely you can make that organization exist as more than two simple words."

My eyes do not leave the other man. I have faced down worse before; I have stared at Seymour while bidding for my freedom, knowing the half-Guado could sell me to Kinoc at any moment.

The Founder cannot be more terrible than what I already am poised to lose.

I am not prepared for his laughter.

It is a dry, crackling sound; autumn leaves crushed underfoot is an appropriate comparison, if they all were given voice to cheer on their own mutilation. "Are you so ready?"

I answer with a good deal more conviction than I feel. "Yes."

A withered brow raises in my direction. The Founder's skepticism is clear.

"If you will be traveling down into the reaches of Bevelle, you will not survive as you are now, Baralai." Gone is the humming of his casual speech. Reed-woven as his voice may be, Trema gives me only hard words. "Are you able yet to abandon your past? Can you truly shed yourself of old attachments if doing so will advance you further to your goals? I see no proof of this." He stands to face me, and the folds of his gold-stained robe crinkle with his slow steps towards the desk. "Only... a _child's_ recklessness."

I draw a breath in strong, focus on the air in my lungs and the way the study smells of must and hidden rot. "My goal is to keep Nooj from fulfilling his plan. If he reaches this Vegnagun, then I know I will lose something important. And I..." I halt in place, realizing only when I touch my tongue to my lips to wet them that my entire mouth is dry as cotton. "I have something I need to keep alive. Even if I must give everything up in order to do so."

At last, Trema's gaze flickers down to the sphere. His interest settles on the crimson promise of memory, the orb that gleams with the color of Paine's eyes.

I have him.

"So..." One clawed hand lowers, caressing the record with a strange affection. "Sentiment rules you in the end, Baralai. You may yet remain nostalgia's victim." Ruddy light awakens with Trema's touch to the sphere's surface. It simmers, rises to brush against his palm and highlights his skin in red. "But if it is the urge to protect which motivates you... perhaps you will not be such a poor choice."

Trema lifts his voice even while I am puzzling through his implications, continues his revelations past my thoughts. "I recommend you keep that feeling in your heart, Baralai. You will find something that has a great need of such a, mm, _guardian_. Very well." An announcement made brisk. "If you can bring your friend back, mm, _alive_, then I will see what can be done. I make no promises, Baralai," he stresses, fixing an eye too sharp to be rheumed upon me. "Though I may show you the door, it is up to _you_ to survive the descent. Did you think to bring a weapon?"

I blink, brought up short by Trema's verbal meanderings and thrown against the immediacy of my plans. I had been in too great a hurry to stop by the training halls.

My lack of foresight is stunning.

With a patriarch's sigh, Trema slides the top drawer of his desk out. Wrinkled fingers paw through it and retrieve a bulky machina pistol; this, he sets upon the desk, where it glimmers dull in the banked light of the sphere beside it. "Take this," he instructs, with the same patient suffering as a teacher. "Use it sparingly. Now pull back the rug."

The heavy pattern of the carpet is a design I have studied before, but never did I expect to take it into my hands. I start with the corner next to the fireplace, gripping the weight and dragging the length of it back. Underneath is naught other than stone floor. I should know; I have stood on it frequently enough to know it to be solid.

Trema waves me closer to the hearth with an imperious hand once he sees the confusion on my features. "Reach underneath the mantle," he commands. "The second button. No, the _second_," he repeats impatiently, watching my finger fumble in the small depressions I would otherwise swear to be imperfections in the marble.

A click rewards me as I crook a knuckle.

Blue light traces a square in the center of the cleared space, wide enough for several people to stand upon with ease; the color is familiar, and I recognize it to be the boundary lights of a transportation lift. For a man who receives few private audiences, I have wondered why Trema's study kept such a void of carpet to stand upon. Before this moment, I thought it mere intimidation for any guests, forcing them to speak on tapestry's stage.

Now I am grateful that there is enough room on the outlined stone that I will not fear falling.

The Founder does not wait for my full appreciation of his ruse. He continues speaking, a litany of details handed out with dispassion. "This lift will take you to a sector of the Underground that bypasses the greater security of the guards. Your arrival point lands after the Cloister of Trials. It may be that your friend has fled near there if they have not yet discovered him. Not many," Trema continues, his voice shading a hint of wry, "think to invade the Temples themselves in search of rogue influences."

"My lord," I answer, nodding my head in nervous half-bow. "Thank you..."

He interrupts me, cold. "Go. If I see you alive after this, you can express your gratitude at that time. This is your final test, Baralai." An age-spotted hand tightens on the sphere-offering, possessive of the tribute I have bought my passage with. "Only you will be able to guarantee your own survival. Use your time well."


	17. Chapter 17

Stonework shivers underneath my feet and the platform is dropping into blackness, carrying me with it. Trema's study rushes away. The sparse rectangle of light leading back to safety recedes in a matter of seconds; it shrinks and vanishes even while I am staring at it, willing it to remain in place through my desire alone.

The free-form nothingness within Bevelle is a flood of cold air. Moisture graces each breeze, swelling from the massive waterways beneath the temple. I can smell the mixture of metal and rust. Here is the dust of secrets untouched. It is ancient, and I am a visitor miniscule.

The tower's proportions circle. I am cycled from lift to lift, an organic package shuffled along the treads of all this cogwork machina. Truthfully, I had not expected to find a route of such proportions so near to the Founder's access. By being elevated highest to the sky, Trema is also furthest away from the underground. A subconscious ruse; visitors lift their heads in awe to the tower, crane their necks back, and forget that there are numerous floodgates running beneath their feet. The highest priests are above. They are detached from even their own party, separated away from the muck of common intrigues.

In retrospect, I suppose the method does nothing for Trema save force him to walk even longer when he wishes to involve himself directly in Bevelle's underbelly.

The air cobwebs across my face. Trema's machina pistol is unwieldy, the grip too thick; I shift it awkwardly in my hand as I lean upon the lift-railing, wait to arrive for delivery. While service lights are embedded around the lift's perimeter, their sparse radiance does little against the gloom save to scroll blue arcs over the tower's innards. The shapes cast through shadow are bloated nightmares; mapping this world is impossible, unless you scripted in vast chasms for dreams.

Surrounded by so much bleakness, all I can do is listen to my own descent.

The emptiness of the tower invades me, pawing at my nerves.

I have never been afraid of the dark. Since childhood, I have learned a familiarity with the substance, knowing it to be only another vehicle of intrigue. What is spoken or heard from the shadows is only information, even if such is naught but foreknowledge of the beast that will be your doom.

Otherwise, a secret is only words. And words can work for you as easily as against.

The gulf within the tower is the same. I can feel it tasting my body, and then relenting upon the recognition that I, too, am of Bevelle. Invisible pressures recede. I inhale must.

In this hollow within the temple's skin, I can almost hear the breath of Bahamut again.

Then the lift settles to a stony halt; the blue lights dim, and I know the low rumble back-hum in the air to be but gearwork. A million forms of machina fill the underground. Now I must walk among them.

My transport has docked itself in a minor antechamber. Thin stone platforms lead to a shuttered door; these, my only way out. I take them steadily, not sparing a glance down to the whispering void a footspan's width from falling. No directions were provided to me. For all I know, Somasil might have slipped already and plummeted into the deep, so far down that even his fiend would be lost to prowl the lowest levels.

Machina guardians stud the walls, jointed like insects; their artificial construction leaves them in eternal readiness against any threats that might intrude. Some are multi-legged. Others remain bipedal, mimicking a humanoid only in loosest approximation. I cannot imagine what their original creators might have taken for inspiration but the living world, and these resemblances to natural beings unsettles me.

Soulless eyes swivel in my direction. Noting either my Lustrum coat or some other insignia important enough to heed, the guardians subside and allow me passage.

My arm, unaccountably, has begun to ache again.

It is less than five minutes down the maze of corridors that leads me to find the first signs of trouble. The tunnel floor is metal, absorbing my bootsteps with muffled thunks; there is no other sound than my own presence, not even when I turn the corner and discover evidence of a struggle. Stains mark the ground in clusters, darker than rust-puddles where moisture collects into rot. The spots are fresh. When I touch them and lift my fingers for study, I see that their color is crimson.

Somasil. It must be. That or fiends bleeding true, a red swath instead of ichor-yellow or ivory. I should not be surprised to find fiends down the crevices of Bevelle, but so close to the Cloister of Trials?

So preoccupied am I in trying to determine if the liquid is from a human or a fiend that I am taken unaware by the lizard that slams into my side. A hard-edged mouth claps upon my waist; the coat takes the worst of the fiend's bite when it closes its jaws and tries to yank, but I can still feel its teeth creaking upon my lower ribs.

My arm hits the wall. The weight of the fiend is atop me, rolling, and I twist as best I can to plant the muzzle of Trema's machina pistol in its flesh. Point-blank, the shot detonates within the fiend. It spasms in pain, muscles going haywire in reaction to strong trauma; one claw whips across my face in a glancing cut, and I fight now to get free of the creature's death throes.

Shoving the fiend's dissolving body aside, I struggle to get back up to my feet. Green ichor is spattered across my jacket, all down my leg, and when I try to wipe my cheek with the back of a hand, the ooze sends a fiery sting into the wound.

Luck is not on my side. Two more of the lizards have dropped out of the shadows further down the hall, and now they are hissing in my direction. One of them slows briefly when I clip its leg, and then they are both upon me, snapping for my face. I fire the machina gun with a complete lack of finesse under their onslaught, missing once, hitting twice, minor explosions of force that kick my hand back like a punch to the palm each time.

Then all response from the machina ceases. Horror-struck, I find myself staring at the weapon, my finger still uselessly squeezing the trigger even as the lizards thrash near my feet in mimicries of death. Pyreflies leak from their bodies and whirl around me, confused.

I step hastily away from the multicolored clouds.

Five shots, that was the sum allotted me. Either Trema already had a half-empty clip, or he simply never relied upon the weapon. Now they are gone, and this pistol is worth little more than a bludgeoning club.

There are many reasons why I dislike machina guns. Running out of ammunition would be one of them.

Having no other option, I press close to the walls, shifting my path along the running-lights in hopes that the attempt at cover will keep me from being revealed as half such an alluring target. The displays here are in poor condition; judging from how the casings have been shattered, the damage is either recent or no one has been able to repair the bulbs for a while.

Drawing nearer to one, I examine the clear plate for signs of layered dust. Nothing. Whatever has broken them is recent.

This is the trail that I follow, connecting dots of splintered casings as I skirt from hall to hall. Gloom expands, invites me in. Occasional machina guards click to attention when I pass. With all this distraction, I almost miss the ghosts in the corridor before one lifts its head and croaks my name.

"Baralai."

"Somasil?" Recognition of that voice hits me like a machina bullet, and I break into a jog to the Lustrum's side. He is slumped against the corner of the wall and floor, made smaller somehow through his wounds, his exhaustion. Reduced. Muscled limbs capable of splitting a skull like an apple are drawn up to himself to keep from a full-out sprawl. Somasil's jacket has gone sodden and torn with teeth marks; the lizards must have caught him too, snappish needle-mouths seeking to devour.

When I kneel, I realize that I am doing so in a smear of Somasil's blood.

"Hold still," I order immediately, blindly, pulling my Lustrum coat off and pinning a corner beneath my foot. Finding a ragged edge in the cloth, I wrench a strip off. The expensive weave gives way easily; Yevon unravels itself in my hands. "Let's get some of these wounds tied up."

Somasil is too weak to stop me, though one of his hands comes up in an initial attempt to still my efforts. I start to brush it aside. Then I frown, wrapping my fingers around his knuckles and feeling the extent of his flesh's chill.

"I'm glad I found you, Somasil. You're as cold as death."

The Lustrum twists his hand and catches mine in his own when I say that. Looking up, I watch a bare-toothed smile spread itself across his features.

Then weariness sweeps his eyes, and he is only human again.

"What are you doing down here, Baralai?"

Sore temptation to claim that I am on a scenic tour, as tense with nerves as I am. "I was looking for you. To have fiends so close… that's surprising this near to the temple." Pulling my fingers away from Somasil, I probe the rip in his right sleeve and wince when I realize that what I thought was destroyed fabric is actually shredded muscle tissue. That could not have been from only lizards. "How did they even get down here?"

"Pyreflies." Somasil's one-word explanation is a choked laugh. "I took a turn further on and found myself surrounded... they were all coming up from the mists. All I could think of when I saw them was about death. They must have responded to me. Become like that." Covering his mouth with a wrist, Somasil makes a series of wet coughs before he manages to speak again. "Too many bad memories."

He tries to shake his head, the motion turning to wince as he pushes himself to lean forward. Fails.

I think of a blankly reassuring noise to make here, related to how everything will be fine as long as he holds still and does not exert himself.

"Putting me back together isn't going to help, Baralai." Lowering his hand from his mouth, Somasil wipes the trickle of fluid upon it off on his pant leg. "I'm trapped between monsters below and priests above. They're both equally as bad. Leave me here. I don't have anywhere else to go."

"Don't give yourself up so easily." Another ribbon ripped off my jacket, and I am lashing the ruins of Somasil's coat to his arm. "I've spoken with lord Trema. He promised... " and here I pause, finding the weight of that unspecified bargain settling like a chill noose around my chest, "that he's willing to give a second chance to you. Come back, Somasil. We have a chance to change our futures. Stay alive, and come back with me."

Jagged laughter comes out the man upon my encouragement. "You're an _idiot_, Baralai." His tone holds no humor, no forgiveness. "You can't fix the world overnight. What's done can't be erased. You've heard what happened or else you wouldn't be down here. I killed Gella's priest. I'm guilty. Pushed him off the stairs."

So the rumors were true. Unsurprised, I exhale. Reply simply, "I know."

My acquiesce spurs a rush of anger from the flagging Lustrum. "Then do you think I'll really just be let free if I return? I can't bring him back to life, and even if I did, it wouldn't change anything. He'd still hurt Gella. If he were alive and standing before me," Somasil continues, shifting his leg with a wince, "I'd do it again, too."

I say nothing. The strength melts out of him, dissolving like the flicker of a pyrefly.

"Did someone Send the bastard?"

"Yes."

"And... Gella?"

"She's imprisoned inside the Gaol."

In the dark, I hear him curse.

By the time the bandages have wound about his arm and are negotiating with the gashes in his stomach, Somasil has ventured into speaking once again. His words are soft as spring rain. "Gella wouldn't come with me. She has family, and she felt they'd be punished--that's why she stayed here, despite what that fat swine did. I've just wanted to protect her." The Lustrum lowers his head, volunteering the last drabs of his life. "All that's left is try and take the blame for her now that she's freed from that bastard. That's all I can do with myself. Even that little will make me content."

I rip another stripe off my coat, working around the thick lump of an ornamental patch. "If only it were that easy, Somasil." The line of the tear shreds sideways; measuring the length of the patch, I deem this one too small and discard it to the side. "You should know Yevon as well as I. They're blaming her because they can't have you -- "

"Then let me become a fiend!" Somasil's frustrated growl bursts out of him. It bounces off the bounded arch of the ceiling, echoes back to us in distorted speech. "When I come crawling up, maybe I can take them with me too. What other option do I have?"

He sobers, and in his bitter resolve I hear the predetermination of his judgement. "At least then, I might be able to kill the priests who have done this. Maybe I can get her out of there that way."

Unexpectedly, I find my temper rising. The once-robe lowers in my grip, a temporarily forgotten ruin of ritual clothing. "Can't you see that you're hurting her _more_ by doing that, Somasil? Gella just wants to be with you. She doesn't care if you're not able to change the priests, or if you can't make the whole world better for her. She's not _asking_ you to sacrifice yourself like that." I speak, and known the bitterness of my own hypocrisy as I do. "What makes you think she wants a existence that was bought at the expense of _yours?_"

Buffeted by my sudden ire, Somasil weakens. "I only want her to be safe, Baralai," he answers, and his voice is as helpless as a child's. Equally confused in the storm of fate he has been swept up into. "That's more important than what happens to me. Haven't you ever had someone like that before? That you would give your life for them, even if you can't remain together?"

"Gella doesn't _want_ your life," I reply, harder than I feel. "And neither does New Yevon. What they both want is your ability to overcome the past and build a real future. I don't know what I can be done about the priests, Somasil. But I do know that dying like this, underground," I make a motion with my hands, flicking them out, "is the old way. It's how Yevon has always handled its conflicts. That ended when the High Summoner Yuna showed us we could defeat Sin forever -- but what we had to do first was believe that things could change. We had to choose to live."

Such manner of defense is a tired companion to us both; I know it, and I recognize Somasil's familiarity with such rationalizations when he leans his head back against the wall. His exhalation is tinged exhausted with a weariness that has nothing to do with his body, and everything with his soul. "Does that actually work, Baralai?" The question is faint. "How can you erase blood once it's been spilled? Tell me... is it ever possible to take the red out of snow?"

If only I knew.

"One step at a time, Somasil." The New Yevon litany comes to my mouth, automatic, and for the first time I think I understand the lifeline thread of its simplicity. "If you really want to see Gella again and be with her... you'll have to be able to be patient. Even slow changes begin from somewhere. What other choice do any of us have?"

At last, I see withered resignation eclipse Somasil's features. His lips split in a broken smile; eyes upon the floor, the Lustrum shakes his head, rueful. "And here I always thought you the priests' pet dog, Baralai. I figured you came here to pull me back like a rat so that you could be stroked about the ears like a good boy when I was delivered. You've got enough honey on your tongue that you sound just like them." A sigh then, and he runs his fingers over the wrappings on his arm that I have tied, the white cloth that is yet unstained from his wound. "Maybe I'm an idiot as well to trust you. But you're right. There's nothing left for me to lose."

"Except for her."

My addition to his speech earns me a grunt on his part, and I continue, more merciless in the dark of Bevelle's underground than I think I have ever been before. Ever save to a mirror, to myself -- and now, to the dilemma I see reflected in this other man's struggle.

Priests below, fiends above. Friends behind you, aiming at your back.

"I understand how you feel, Somasil. Maybe better than I should." The prolonged confession of our entire discussion hits me then, hard, and I sit back on my heels. "Neither you nor I have anything left to have faith in down here. I wonder... if it's time to leave our beliefs behind, before we're smothered by them. Otherwise, nothing will change."

Now his expression has changed. Brown strands of his hair are plastered over his face from the wound; reaching up, he shoves them back and I see the bullish staff-fighter restored in his features that I recall from the sparring floor. "If you can do that so easily, then you're stronger than I took you for, Baralai."

"No." I close my eyes, reopen them. "If I were, I would be able to heed my own advice."

How often have I berated myself for the very claims that Somasil has made? Wishing that the guilt done were undone, that events could be rewound and erased. That history could be rent as simply as Trema's hand ripping through a recording sphere.

How often have I tried to convince myself that there was no way out save a self-destruction, a sacrifice fitting for Yevon's own stagefright mockery?

The color of the Crimson Spheres is the same as blood poured upon the sands; Team Four's demise in Bikanel, my own later on the Highroad. None of that can be erased. That shade has become a reminder of guilt to me whenever I see it, of acts that I still curse.

Red. Just like the color of Paine's eyes.

I have to believe in what I am doing. So long as I am alive, I might be able to find a way to reconcile events in the future.

If Somasil can do it, then so can I.

This determination goads me to stand. The ruins of my jacket are left behind, a pile of useless cloth that no longer resembles a Yevon shroud. "We'll have to get out of here before more fiends come. The problem is, I'm not sure how." Somasil watches as I click out the machina clip, verifying the results to be empty. "I don't have any spare ammunition. Didn't you come down here with a staff of some kind?"

"Broken." Somasil lifts the snapped lamppole from where the scant length was hiding beside his leg. "Not even sturdy enough for a crutch."

"Are you sure?"

"Why do you think I was sitting here?" The irony of the situation encourages a long shake of the other man's head. He overcomes any urge to jibe swiftly, no comment made as to the uselessness of encouragement if neither of us make it out alive. "If I had it still, I would give you the pistol I took from one of the guards. But I dropped it by accident," the Lustrum confesses, self-scorning for his own sloppy handling of a weapon, "in one of the side rooms. I thought I could hide there but only found an even bigger fiend waiting. The smaller ones chased me in. I ran, but I think I might have woken it up."

There is a specific saying among the Al Bhed when one enters a worse situation from a poor one. I forget the exact phrasing -- Gippal rattled it off once to me during Squad training and then claimed I said something entertaining about a goat when I tried to repeat it back -- but I could make good use of it now.

"I suppose we have no choice but to go back for it." Holding out my hand to give the Lustrum a grip, I brace myself against his weight. He fetches up against me with a stagger; the man is a practiced staff-fighter, but he has been days without sustenance, and wounded. "Lean on me, and we'll make it out."

Somasil catches his balance with a groggy reel, but his eyes are sharp when he fixes them upon me. Bevelle rarely accepts those with slow wit. "This person it is you're working for, Baralai..." he states aloud, watching his conjecture verified in my face, "she must really be worth it to take you this far."

I look at the blood-stained floor, at the red of Somasil's life left behind as yet another Yevon mystery in the depths.

"She is."

We say nothing after that, occupied with the work of slinging Somasil's arm over my shoulder, my hand gripping him about the waist. It is a carryhold I learned from the Crimson Squad. Some skills never fall out of usefulness.

Trema's machina gun is passed off to the Lustrum, and I take up the broken staff. Stumbling like this back down the hall is an exercise in patience. I seal the doors behind us as we go. Their edges lock into place, recessed near-invisible in the rat-maze of hallways; with luck, that will keep fiends from surprising us from the rear.

Guided by Somasil's directions, we pause near a split of corridors. The door behind us has already been shut; there cannot be more than a few additional minutes walk back to the salvation of the lift, but I have not yet passed the scene of my last encounter with the lizard-fiends. It is far too likely that others have returned.

Somasil interprets my hesitation. "The monster is down that way," he defines for me, nodding at the yawning arch to our left. "Are you sure -- "

"Shh."

We drop into mutual silence with the same fearful wariness as children caught by threats of Sin in the attic. One echo whispers at the edge of my hearing. Then a second. Scrabblings over metal, chitter-whispers of creatures finding playtime in the Underground.

"And fiends between us and our exit out." I gauge the distance back with a wary eye; even with ladlefuls of optimism, I cannot think our chances of avoiding all trouble are very high. "I'll try for it. Stay here, Somasil. If you have to, take that hallway down and palm the door. It should bring you to Trema's study. Don't wait for me if there's trouble. Do you understand?"

Surprise takes him at mention of the Founder, but then stubbornness fits his face. "Do I look like a priest, to abandon you down here at the first sign of a fiend?"

"Then let's hope I don't get caught."

The pistol is near the entrance, a short crouched-jog in. It comes easily to my palm, fumbled there by fingers as I kneel gingerly, foist it into my hand. Shadows steep like overaged tea. They shift, hypnotic around the bulk of the creature, and I am arrested as I stare up at the dark god above me.

It might be a huge spider, judging by how there are cables here and there woven into where it lurks; I cannot tell their nature, only their thickness based upon the sparse observations where they criss-cross over the dim lights, streak a gridwork over the pulsing runes of Yevon's doctrines.

In the throb of electrical light, I think I catch a glimpse of the creature's shape.

"Hold on," I whisper, passing the machina back to Somasil and then pacing two steps deeper into the room. Three. Four, and the beast has not yet moved. Five.

The staff is held tight in my hand. Perspiration from my fingers is turning the weight of it clammy. Six steps and there is no reaction, no sign that this hulk is even alive or aware. Seven.

At the eighth step comes the rumble far below of Yevon's temple bells; they assemble in sleepy choirgoer status, starting off uncoordinated at first before they rally together with iron-tongued chime to toll the hour. Generators whirl to accept the power load of numerous cogs spinning together in unified time. Yevon's script scrolls down the walls.

In acknowledgement of this, the creature at last begins to stir.

Rune-writing blossoms around the walls of the fiend's lair. Then the lights all flash on, a lightning's stroke of brilliant blue power, and I recognize what manner of being has burrowed its nest deep within Bevelle's Underground.

Locust-skull face. The same as has haunted my dreams since the Den of Woe, its crest rising high above the creature's head as an antenna. Wings couched closed where they cannot possibly spread full in a room this small. An insect coiled inside a honeycomb isolation.

Vegnagun.

A whirl and I am facing Somasil, whose eyes are wide as grief as he stares at me dwarfed by the monster.

"Run!"

No sooner does that word scream from my mouth than I hear the roar of a nightmare awakened. I grip the broken staff in desperation and turn; too slow, much too slow, for Vegnagun is already unfolding its bulk from hibernation.

A shot cracks through the air, the noise a slight whisper in comparison to the beast. Somasil has lifted the machina gun, bracing it against the door and his arm as he tries to bring the targeting sight to bear upon the monster's face.

This attack only serves to enrage the creature further. It surges out of its perch, legs spindling around me like a cage while I try to dash for the exit. One joint strikes me across the back; even the glancing blow is enough to send me flying, a breathless arc that skids me deeper back along the chamber's platform and groping for a handhold to keep from falling off.

I hit the ground hard.

The remains of the impromptu staff bounce out of my grip, clattering on the metal walkway. Pawing forward in a chase of the meager weapon, I crawl along on my belly, pushing off with my knees in a desperate lunge.

It rolls towards the edge and then, wavering, drops off just as my fingers glance its battle-chipped surface.

Panicked, it is all I can do to keep from diving afterwards. Instead I can only watch the lampstand descend into the pitch depths below, spinning end over end like a glinting looped-pole staff, glimmering like a star.

With a thud strong enough to send my very bones throbbing in reverberation symphony, Vegnagun slams its heavy tail down upon the walkway out. Lights flicker as their power is disrupted; flicker, and then all go out at once when an overburdened circuit snaps.

I am trapped.


	18. Chapter 18

If death were a place where air itself had to petition entrance, then it would be a realm such as this. Cold metal spreads along the length of my body. Perhaps I am the one laid out upon it, so much meat upon a slab. I am dinner in waiting for the cooks, caught in the timelessness between washup and the prep.

The world is chill. My heart does not beat, my lungs do not move, and shadowpuppet shapes take dim life in the hallucination of the darkness. Limbs melt out of the night. Buckled leather. Red eyes.

Paine.

_Her hair is long. Longer than a swordfighter's ever should be, long because it means she does not ever have to use a blade again. There is no threat that will take her away. Yevon does not hunt her. Fiends do not stain the streets to her door. There is no fight for her to pit herself against, and that means this woman is not truly Paine. She is not real._

_In a world of utter peace, Paine's anger and sharp edges would have nothing to grate against. They would fade, change from the person I know even as her hair would grow past her shoulders and turn her silhouette wavy against the setting sun. Safety is not what Paine needs. It is not what she flourishes in. She -- as I know her, as I have come to love her -- would not exist without the daily threat of risk._

_It is a dream to see her otherwise. Nothing more._

_As I realize this, her image rushes away from me. Water pouring backwards, heart's red pouring into the sluicegates of a river swollen with rains. Silt-brown covers the world and covers me with it. Paine is gone and I am drowning in the acceptance of mud._

I rouse myself to the sound of my name being screamed.

"Baralai!" The voice bleeds ragged, desperate. "By the _Fayth!_ Baralai!"

I have no room in me for breathing; it seems hardly fair to allow for humor. The irony of a fallen Lustrum calling upon Yevon's force to save me is remarkable.

It hurts to move. Gingerly I push against the ground, rolling over through degrees of joints rearranged, muscles stretched. My hair is a pale cocoon-shroud around my face, milky in the dim radiance that glows off the machina, Vegnagun's sheddings of yellow and sparking-blue. When I try to push myself off the floor, the strands tangle in bedsheet folds. Lungs struggle. Then inhale, and I find myself coming back to life from that nothingness that Vegnagun stunned me into.

The beast above me hangs heavy on the air. Its form is greatest in silhouette, blotting out the flickering stars of Yevon script that struggle to restore themselves to light. Backup generators, I realize; auxiliary power is coming on automatically. The old systems of Yevon's underground run smooth, even when there is no one here to maintain them for.

No one save for Vegnagun. The legend that was so dangerous that Yevon sealed away even the rumors that might lead to it, and used the blood of trained squads to do so. Our own spirits might have been intended to join with the pyreflies down there already; one storm of Unsent ghosts added to those already assembled in the pit. Use of the dead to defend that which could not be killed.

I lie upon my back beneath the segmented underbelly, my spread body as vulnerable to teeth as a festival pastry-cake. The monster hovers, the skull-pits of its eyes boring into me with living malice. I thought it fantasy in the Den of Woe to imagine an animal's mind inside that machina, a fiend's lust to kill, but now I am not certain what to believe.

At another distant ting of a shot, Vegnagun roars; its back writhes, twisting up from its hunch over me. Yevon's script upon the walls is blotted out as Vegnagun's wings spread, sliding out from beneath its shell to cramp against the boundaries of its cage. One of its insect's pinchers plows again into the walkway, near to my head, and I am bounced against the bridge as if I weighed no more than a feather.

The sphere of the cage's sky vanishes. Vegnagun thrusts its mouth down towards me; its jaws gape, splitting down the center to the hollow of the monster's mouth. Rings flex. The artificial muscles of Vegnagun's throat bulge impossibly within what should be a larynx, and instead glows with the power to annihilate cities.

I stare into the infinity of death.

"No," I whisper. Too terrified to think straight, my mind scatters like a child's count of marbles upon the floor. "Somasil!" Desperate to halt whatever act is urging this creature on, I throw a hand up uselessly in the air, my palm seeking to ward away my own destruction. "Stop it! Stop shooting!"

"Baralai? Baralai!" I hear his scream, tinny through the distortion of metal. He is as desperate as I am. Or moreso -- with no knowledge of this beast, Somasil can only assume that it is a fiend approaching the scope of Sin, or a machina that could overpower an Aeon itself.

I cannot kill it. Somsail cannot, armed only with a machina gun that has the precious few shots required to clear our way to the lifts out. If he wastes his ammunition, he will not be able to escape.

The chances of him leaving me here to save himself are even more slim.

Forced into a reply, I call back the first thing that comes falling off my tongue. "I'm all right, Somasil! I'm all--"

Above me, Vegagun lowers its mouth in a baritone howl. The force of its roar bullies into me, deafening, and plucks my voice from out my throat as neatly as a cherry from its stem.

Images scatter through my mind as easily as autumn leaves before the storm. Paine, her face flushed with anger upon the Luca docks while the sailors mixed with seagulls around us both. Gippal with his arms bound in the desert, asking me why I did nothing to save myself from the sand. Nooj. Desperation mixed with smug confidence, as I preempted a game upon his part that I do not yet fully understand.

Memories, crashing together until I cannot think through them all. Only drown.

And below it all, Trema's voice, asking me about leaving the past behind to journey free into the future.

I need to understand this riddle. Master it somehow, devise a way to barter with the beast even as I have tried to negotiate the priests above. To understand Paine, Gippal, Nooj and the Crimson Squad, the long line of failures that I have only marginally stumbled through.

Nothing is coming together. Nothing holds stable enough for me to hold fast to it as a lifeline.

If I cannot reason my way out of this confrontation, I will die.

The glow in Vegnagun's throat rises, blanketing the room in a noontide hum. Metal rumbles beneath me, vibrating in tune with the power being generated through the machina's mouth. Every conviction I thought to bear with me for support flees. I cannot think. Time is running out.

"Stop."

Not until Vegnagun goes silent do I realize that I have spoken aloud. Impossible for it to have heard me under the circumstances; my ears are still ringing from the cacophony it created, muffling my own pulse like a drumbeat within my skull.

And yet it did. Then obeyed.

I pant, and the pace of my lungs is a rabbit's rapidity in comparison to the flanks of the machina. Its sides pulse; internal processes take in and expel oxygen, feeding some hidden machinery of its innards. The procedure is a mimicry of life, much like the machina guardians which stud the halls, but I do not know if Vegnagun is possible of the same terror that I feel now.

We stare at one another, neither of us daring to move.

A weapon. A weapon of the past, that was what Trema had called it. All these intricacies of creation, wrapped together in a package meant only to destroy. And it has been kept here all this while. Intelligent enough to react to my intrusion, to understand my speech--what can a creature like this be thinking, if such is even within its capacity?

"What are you?" In the hushed underworld of Vegnagun's nest, the susurrus of my own voice come mincing back to me on court-steps. "Are you a tool? A weapon? Why do you remain down here when not even Trema knows what to do about you?"

The lines of priest-scrawl around us both luminesce the machina with a ghastly aura. Yevon's prayers give me no answer as the words on the walls come grimly back to life. One line is revived as the backup generators finish stabilizing, and then another. Vertical stripes paint the room. They dapple Vegnagun in blue against its yellow; in the restored brilliance, the creature seems somehow smaller despite its mass.

Wings scrape against each other with the same sound as sculptors' rasps. Vegnagun is pulling them back in. The carapace accepts and hides the gauze of the distorted dragonfly inside itself; I watch the recession of the machina's threat and wonder if this is its reply to me.

When I gather my legs beneath myself and begin to stand, the creature inexplicably pulls _away_.

It cannot possibly be frightened by something as small as me.

Can it?

I fight to retake my balance, pulling myself upright into a stand that wavers at first, and then steadies. Vegnagun couches its legs closer to its chest as I do, lumbering backwards; the metal of the walkway groans as it leans upon the struts.

At any other time, I might find suspicion with the machina's behavior. Instead, the present moment is filled with hollow observations. It is cold in the underground without my Lustrum coat. The wound on my cheek from the lizard's attack is stinging, a distant reminder that I am yet among the living.

Bevelle is a place where I have lost my way again and again. Bereft of any guide to follow, I look at Vegnagun, and only wonder.

"Do you think that I'll hurt you?"

My question causes the machina's eyes to flare anew. The pinpricks of light gather within that locust skull, and I amend my words while watching them kindle.

"I don't want to harm anything." An overstatement, perhaps, but one I realize is true. One step follows another as I approach the circular platform hanging in the center of the tomb, and Vegnagun glowers at me as I do. "I came down here for... for a friend. Not to fight. I came because I wanted to help him. You... I found by accident."

The sentence is familiar. It worries at me until I recall that Paine said the same while in Luca; there are no sailors to witness the standoff between myself and Vegnagun, however, and yet it cannot be denied that this machina has caused just as many stirs in our former Squad as any of the human members.

The remainder of the truth uncurls in the chamber, swelling the silence until I choose to break it once more.

"I remember you, Vegnagun." Bootheels impacting the walkway come in slow patience, metronome notes as I walk steadily towards the machina. "I saw you in someone else's nightmare. I didn't know what it meant at the time, but you didn't exist anywhere in the records, no matter how long I looked."

My recitation trebles itself in echo. The whispers roil around Vegnagun, around myself, and inwardly I am amazed that I can be so calm. Fascination of this problem has loosened my grip on survival's fear; I walk in a dream, talk in a dream, and know that I am just as lost now as I have ever been since entering the Den so long ago.

"No one knew about you. So I left my friends, all because you were so important that one of us wanted to kill for you... " Joints swivel on the machina when I say this, tense themselves to renew their whirring preparations, and I come to a halt, puzzling over what might have triggered its defenses. The void on either side of me sways. Falling off the walkway would send me tumbling after the lamppost staff, and yet the creature has not flicked me to my doom.

Vegnagun absorbs my tale with no reply. Wariness for some words, inanimate indifference otherwise.

"Why?" The word finally trickles out of me with no conviction save confusion. "What are you that we have all been lost inside a dream of you in an Unsent's memory? I have spent almost a year leaving everything behind because I have wanted to understand this. Why did Yevon want to bury us in that cave? What _are_ you, Vegnagun?"

No answer comes.

I wonder if I really expected one.

Lacking a decision, bereft of understanding, all I can do is continue speaking aloud. "You're hidden down here. A secret they're ashamed of, but can never acknowledge." Now I have reached the middle of the suspended platform, standing before the machina beast itself, and despite this I have not been struck dead. "So you are kept here alone, and all that happens is that Bevelle works around you because they don't know what else to do."

Another step, and then a second. The spindled legs of the machina are spidered around the platform, trailing massive to tower above me with their many flexible joints. I maintain the one-sided conversation with a pattering practicality to keep my mind off of what exactly I am doing.

"I don't know how to find my way out of this trap I've put myself into here in Bevelle. It seems as if I've only made one mistake after another trying to chase what I think will work best. Just when I think I have everything straightened out, something else comes up to prove me wrong. But I can't admit it. And," I add, reaching out my hand at last to touch featherweight fingertips to the jaw of the monster before me, "neither can Yevon."

It shudders. Lulled by the meanderings of my voice, it had allowed me to near its proximity without lashing out. Relentless, I continue speaking, my hand a tiny speck against a pair of toothed jaws that could snap me in two with as much effort as I might bite into an apple. The metal of its locust-skull is warm, but not hot enough to sear. "Bevelle, myself -- all we do is keep hiding things. It's... our nature. None of us know how to remedy what we've done, or even if it made any difference in the end. Instead we keep walking. That's all we can do."

One step at a time.

In the renewed stillness, I realize the whirr of Vegnagun's motors has gone quiet. The fires of its eyes have dimmed almost to extinction; despite this, the heat of its machina frame remains, radiating against my skin.

"Let me out, Vegnagun." My request falls mild in a chamber which was meant to be the machina's tomb, and almost is mine. "I'm not here to use you. I don't even know how to use myself."

The fear that possessed me upon first confronting the beast has vanished. There were no answers here, none that I had not already been presented in the labyrinth of Bevelle's halls. Seeing how the creature has been closeted has only reminded me of the temple-riddles, which have no solutions, and no rule save tradition to keep them running.

Whether or not the machina understands my confession, my tone of voice has the desired effect. The heavy weight of Vegnagun's tail slides free from the walkway, uncoiling and disappearing into the darkness of the pit.

The exit's smooth lines are broken by the staggered figure leaning upon it; when the machina retracts its barrier, the Lustrum gathers himself enough to take a step inside.

"Baralai?"

Somasil's question is pensive. Worried, even as he squints against the mixed lights of the room and tries to find my body where he expects it to be on the floor.

I detach myself from Vegnagun, my hand falling back to my side as I walk the path back to the Lustrum's side. "It's all right, Somasil," I call, and even then my voice is restrained. "I'm alive."

He takes another step in and stumbles. I hurry to catch him, bracing his wounds against my support. Brown eyes shift to look over my shoulder as I do, Somasil's gaze fixing upon the machina hulk of Vegnagun where it has settled inside the chamber; I distract him by asking about the gun and how many shots are left, hoping that we have enough to survive the fiends back to the lift.

Urging the Lustrum along, I sling his arm back over my shoulder and take a careful step down the hall. Vegnagun makes no sound behind us as we go. I do not look back. There is no longer any need to.


	19. Chapter 19

"They say the Founder can control fiends."

It is a month after the recovery of Somasil, and Gella's face is only slightly less dour than winter itself as she challenges me. Partners weave around us in intercepting circles. A few inadvertently collide. The steps of the routine are broken clockwork, pounded out by the acolytes still novice enough to require full-padded poles.

"Where did you hear that?"

I duck under her swing, narrowly enough that the staff riffs through my hair.

"Somasil said," Gella grunts, twisting the looped-pole around her arm and building up its speed in a whirl around her waist, "that you used a trick like that to get out of the Underground." Thick wrists flash in tanned illusions as she crosses them, switches the joints around and dances the loops through the air.

"Oh?"

"Left." Not understanding her cue, I am taken off guard. The staff thuds into my ribs squarely and I am knocked to the ground, skidding off the mats with a hand planted square. A pair of trainees horsestep hurriedly away when I slide into their range; staring up the acolyte that almost kicked me in the head, I attempt to breathe a hasty apology before pushing myself back up to my feet.

The heat in the practice hall spreads sweat across everyone assembled, thick as morning butter on longwheat toast. As a result of this, most of the Lustrum have scattered their schedules to the morning and evening rather than spar during noon's rush. Only the younger recruits are forced into the hotter hours, and all of them dislike it. They cast sporadic glances at the section of the mats that Gella and I have claimed by right of seniority, but primarily because we have been here since the morning, and none have dared dislodge us.

Dopha and Shelinda have already departed the hall, intent on their own day's work. Trema held true enough to his word; after Gella's release and Somasil's case being placed permanently on hold for review, the higher ranks of Bevelle have sensed that the Lustrum were temporarily off-limits. No priests have given us specific workloads to follow. We dictate our own schedules.

Only foolishness would cause a priest to interfere with us at the current point in time. We have the favor of the Founder. Whichever manipulative game he must be playing with us, they are not so certain they wish to tamper with. Yet.

Such protection will last for but a short while, until the next opportunity comes for political maneuvering. We enjoy our freedom while we can.

"Right."

I twist in time and manage to block the woman's attack with a glancing defense. Around us I can hear the instructors demonstrating the basics to the rest of the hall; Gella and I are lost in our own quartered world, ignoring the gravity of lectures, continuing at our own relentless pace.

Summer has brought more changes with it than just the temperature. A new class of acolytes qualified for the Lustrum title have graduated to our ranks; there are three of them from what I have heard, all hesitant to even speak to the others housed within the Lustrates lest they be engaged in complex ploys. They are housed down the hall from Dopha. He reports that they scatter from the halls when they see him, like frightened mice expecting us all to be felinoid.

The new Lustrum take up the simpler work by default. With the progression to sweltering months, festival garlands must be cycled; the banners swapped out appropriately to shine their colors on alternating days, proper rituals observed while folding the cloth and shaking it out for display. Dried flowers must be replaced with fresh. And the fresh must be watered and tended daily lest they wither; at the first sign of rot, we must replace any decay with new.

Privately, I suspect the whole tradition exists only to keep the Lustrum occupied. Bevelle is largely ceremonial. Even though we have been able to avoid specific projects by the upper echelons of New Yevon, the daily business of temple maintenance remains. There is no snow to shovel in summertime, but we have a great deal of dust.

In practice, this matters less than it might. Gella and I elected Dopha to be in charge of handling the festival correspondences with the newest Lustrum. When he protested, citing the workload and rattling off numerous calculations on the square feet of the halls and walkways, Gella ordered Shelinda to help. The brown-haired girl pursed her lips in a pout of annoyance; I wonder how long it will take her to stand up for herself and say no.

Or if she ever will, and instead prefers being given direction in her life.

Time moves on. Eventually even Gella will advance to priesthood; Dopha is a certainty, and Shelinda a questionable affair. I do not know where I will go from here, whether it be to priesthood myself or to a position on the council, but I too will be swept up in the tide of months progressing.

Freed from her assignment to a deceased priest and unwanted by the more timid of officials who fear a similar fate befalling them, Gella has found herself unexpectedly idle. She fills in her days by following me. I am much too weak for my own good, she has decided. After hearing about the lizards in the Underground, the Lustrum declared that it was her debt of honor to fix my inability to fight.

So far under her brutal tutoring, I have advanced in staff ranks to single-looped poles. The tassels of the practice staffs always hit me in the face while I am swinging them in the more complex twists; that is their purpose, to teach people to dodge lest they get their noses splintered by a length of wood, or legs bruised and broken. I have not yet mastered the weapon style, and keep spitting out mouthfuls of cord.

"Footwork's lagging!" Gella's bark lends haste to my steps as I feint to the side, her attack coming low in an effort to rouse me. The staff clips my ankle. I ignore the slap of numbed nerves and begin to match my palms to the wood in an effort to spin the weapon for a counter.

Gella has already finished her wind-up by the time I have completed my twist. She lifts her arms. Hand over hand, her fingers dance. Tassels whirl. They blur together in the first start of the glinting attack, and I snap my own staff back in a hasty parry that I fear will not be enough.

We are interrupted by the first rumbled sounds of iron tongues clapping. Afternoon bells sound. The hum through the practice hall resounds in doubled peals, and Gella halts in mid-swing towards me, reining in the brutality of her attack with ease.

"We're late," she observes, succinct.

I am too busy panting, and only eye her with appropriate exhaustion.

The look upon my face causes her to bark a laugh; the sound is rich, warm, and one that I am only slowly becoming used to. The woman never had the allowance for expression before while watched by a priest intent on removing her from Somasil. Now she reintroduces her personality back to herself, remembering the features she has stifled all this while.

Gella has finally been able to change her clothes out of the stiffer robes that have confined her for the duration of her stay in Bevelle. Slacks were found, sturdy boots, and a tunic that allows her free range of motion to whirl with a brawler's speed as easily off the practice mats as on. She walks the halls with a full willingness to flaunt her change in dress, enjoying her visual rebellion as she has never been allowed before.

Since escaping the Underground, I have not worn my Lustrum coat either. Mine was torn up into bandages for Somasil, and though I could have requested others, I feel no desire to dress in the stifling trappings of Yevon once more.

Nor, since leaving Vegnagun, have I dreamed.

Gella exits with me, wiping down her neck and face with one of her practice towels. She offers it, and I decline; finding a washroom and rinsing off sweat can be done easily enough, and I will want a full shower even if I scrub myself down with a basin of water.

Following the trail of cooler stone, we take the lower passageways that wind around the base of Bevelle's temples. Fountains ripple in hydrating luxury along the paths. The trip might be longer this way, but it allows us both to walk in the breeze of the canopied pathways, and the air of the manmade rivers is refreshing to inhale. Nature is elevated to artificial waterfalls; I would find the architecture of Bevelle to be an ironic parallel to the hierarchy of the priests, but my mind is weary enough that it unwinds to simple conversation.

"How are you holding up, Gella?"

"Wit' patience." Sliding out of formality in a telling hint of her own weariness, Gella shakes out her sleeves before proceeding to tie them up around her biceps. "Still don't know when Somasil'll be allowed back. Might be a while b'fore we see each other. Just knowin' he's out there's enough for me," she confesses, slowing her words throughout her own admission and steeling through them without a hint of blush. "We're both alive. Bevelle'll forget about us. When that happens, I figure we've got time to decide what to do then."

"Will you be staying with New Yevon?"

"Don't think he'll want to come back here." The ends of Gella's hair flick around her ears when she shakes her head. One of the first things she did upon freedom was to cut it short, in defiance against a priest now-dead. "I can't leave yet neither. Got my family depending on me. Youngest sister, she's going to be counted thirteen years come winter. Don't worry your head on it, Baralai." Her boots clunk upon the hallstones, steps as precise as a metronome. "That's our problem t' figure out. You've got your own. Which reminds me."

We turn a corner and the mortarwork beneath our feet is crumbling in the scattered summer light.

"Somasil didn't have a chance to tell me much, but he said you used a trick down there to escape from a fiend. We didn't talk for long." The Lustrum's voice is blunt, country-born pragmatic as she walks beside me. "No time. He wanted me to tell you to be careful. Tricks you're learning from the Founder," a shake of her head, the name like an epithet, "you be watchful with them. He may've saved me n' Somasil from the Gaol. Doesn't mean it's not for a purpose."

Whoever thinks Gella to be a dullard judges on her accent alone. Having no proper response to the accuracy of her guess, I divert my words back to a safer matter. "I'm honored that Somasil thought enough of me to spend time expressing his concern."

"Enough to tell me to show you how to glint. Your right hand's still too low."

The meeting halls we pass form rows upon rows of open doors, wooden mouths exhaling summer heat. Windows are kept similarly propped ajar, but the air circulation in Bevelle's chambers can stand to use improvement. Buzzing words flit out from the rooms. Classes are being taught in some of them, and in others, reports and training squads receive their paperwork.

Bevelle hums with activity restrained. Gella and I pace down the half-covered walkways, and I find some measure of peace in my ability to do so without having to hide myself.

The nearest speaker's voice tarries on the air towards us.

"They are calling machina a different word, that of _machines_." To judge from the rank disapproval in the man's voice, such a literary slur is tantamount to raw heresy. "It appears that they are interested in creating _new_ forms without any other guidance than their own tinkerings, bereft of the manuals of Bevelle."

Screens flicker, flashes of light in the black pit of the presentation room. Beside me, Gella rolls her eyes and continues to walk. I do the same, only half an ear on the briefing we are inadvertently eavesdropping on while we pass.

"These people are a threat." The speaker's throat is thick with smug assurance. "They have invaded the Djose region, and their leader is an Al Bhed who has been on the list for quite some time, evading successful capture thus far."

My feet slow.

"He goes by the given name of Gippal."

I am retreating before I know it, reversing my steps as neat as a tumbler to fetch up against the doorway.

The dim light of the chamber forces me to squint against the brilliance of the display screens. From here, the angle is poor; I can see the scrolling lines that ripple over the glass, the clustered ranks of soldier-heads blotting out half the view with their ridged helmets.

"Here is his dossier."

Buttons click. The screens change and now Gippal's face looms above me, magnified a dozen times taller than I am wide. His smile looks as if he could devour me. Nip my head off with his teeth and swallow it down, wink afterwards with one of those swirl-pupilled eyes. Whoever captured the image did it at the exact time that he was turning jauntily towards the recording machina; trapped slantwise between profile and full-on, Gippal grins at the room in clear-blown mockery.

Gippal? _Alive?_ Is this even possible?

Text lines the lower half of the screen, layering itself in wanton information over Gippal's neck. Height. Weight, age. Last known locations. Known involvements. Yet there is no stamp of the Crimson Squad lingering like a bloodied stain upon Gippal's notices; it seems as if whatever crimes New Yevon sees fit to inform its soldiers upon, former membership in its organization is not one of them.

Interesting.

Could it be true?

"We will be assembling a team to Kilika for the purpose of arresting him and bringing him back for questioning," the priest announces, delivering his verdict to the room entire. "Two teams each of four. In addition, we will deploy six teams each of three to handle the emptying of Djose Temple of the Al Bhed squatters which have claimed its ownership. Prepare to leave at -- "

"No."

Disturbed by my low-voiced command, the priest halts in his orders and looks back to where I stand planted in the doorway. I bear no Lustrum coat. No sign of office, and yet the man's face changes like a bottle underwater, fading from peevishness to recognition. He shifts his weight as a child might when nervous. "Sir?"

The novelty of being addressed by a priest as if I were a superior is a sensation as unique as Sin-toxin, but I deny my own amusement.

"No," I repeat, taking a step forward into the room. All eyes turn to me as I do, a simultaneous fixation of uniformed faces, shade-glass masked. I am bathed in their scrutiny and in the garish light of Gippal's face. "I will be handling this matter personally. Disassemble your teams, please. And take this man off the list."

The priest who spoke looks at me askance. Why he imagines me to be here, I am not certain; none of the Lustrum have ever been recognized on sight before Somasil was accused of murder. Yet it is unmistakable that this man knows who I am.

"But -- "

"Take him _off_, please."

Silence in the room, broken by a shuffle of feet, a stifled cough. None of them know how to respond. I can listen to their hesitance massing, turning like a wave that may yet become an ocean.

Gippal is alive. I close my eyes, find steady footing in the blankness, and reopen them in order to speak once more. "I have taken control of this operation." Words, clipped and well-modulated in a manner that is both dictation and demand. "I will inform Lord Trema of the change in plans. Consider yourselves relieved."

No one dares speak up to question.

I am immersed in their quiet. Gippal's face flickers as the displays refresh his features in scrolling lines, constant as river tides.

We watch each other out of the corners of our eyes, the Al Bhed in memory and I in living proof before Bevelle.

"Sir..." The priest again. He hesitates and then plunges forward. "Will you be taking _any_ support?"

I skip my gaze across the room. Yevon helmets mask identity; given no ideas, I resort to my last assignment for inspiration. "Ready my guards from Luca, please." My guards. Spoken as if I owned them -- how many there were, I do not remember, and their names are even more difficult to beckon out of memory. All I have to recall is the faded shape of smiles as they assembled down the stairs, laughing together like new recruits despite the seriousness of their occupation.

"And cancel the bounty on this Al Bhed. Neither him nor this... rogue faction of his should be tampered with. He is not to be interfered with by New Yevon at this time. Is that understood?" I ask, the question disturbingly mild for all its implied ruthlessness.

"Of... course, my lord." Nodding his head, the priest swallows. His palms flex at his sides. A latent ceremonial bow, I gather, knowing the same reflex in my own wrist tendons. I technically do not outrank him, but my demeanor claims otherwise; the same determination that allowed me to join the Lustrum under a pretense elevates me once more, giving me a status unspecified, and hence dangerous.

He does not know if he should bow.

To excuse us both embarrassment, I take my leave without a parting glance.

Gella turns when I do, falling in behind as my secondary without question. We depart with the weight of uncounted gazes piercing our backs. In short, Bevelle is operating much as it always has, with half of its conspiracies only able to exist through sheer pretense alone.

How soon we return to the forms of old lies. All our travel is one step at a time in Spira; there are days I wonder if we are traveling in a flattened circle rather than ascending to a hopeful conclusion.

We do not speak for the length of the first level around the central courtyard. The gates of Bevelle lurk in the distance; the residential towers to our left, Trema's tower looming above it all. Patrols of guards change position. The colors of the banners wave, announcing celebrations of festivals whose origins have been long-forgotten in the depths of Sin-stained time.

"Is he yours?" Gella's voice, stunted in the blunt practicality of her village-phrasing, arrives on hushed lips.

I am struck by the simplicity of her question.

"Yes. He's... an old friend," I clarify, sensing the layers of unspecified meaning as I do. Such information could be used by priests if they were aware, but the hall is filled with only myself and Gella, and she has already given me her trust.

"Ah."

Gippal. There is no mistaking the Al Bhed's face; even if there was chance of cosmetic error, I _know_ that smile. I remember its recklessness. If he is alive, then it might be that he would have an idea of how to stop Nooj. Or at least to understand what the Deathseeker is plotting. During the Crimson Squad, it was always Gippal who convinced me to try again when all seemed impossible. He communicated with us all. Scattered, alone, we have only fallen apart.

I find myself sorely missing him.

Since hearing nothing about the Al Bhed, I could only expect the worst. And yet the termination of his life would have kept the man safe from these affairs; if he were not alive, he could not be involved in what games are played out upon Spira's face. There would be no need to fear his capture. Nor his death in truth.

Yet for all that knowledge, I cannot wish the revelation undone.

Gippal is alive, or close enough that New Yevon believes it to be so. To have New Yevon fooled is more than enough reason for me to investigate. I can only hope that he, too, will not become my adversary in the accident of the Crimson Squad broken into shards.

Now that I do not have to worry about fooling the priests, the full weight of what I have undertaken covers me like a leaden cape. I did not even request a copy of whatever orders the soldiers were expected to follow. If I return and ask for one, I would only undermine my position. If I am to continue this bluff, I must do so with haste, and find my justification while I am on the road.

Kilika does not seem like a particularly logical place for Gippal to linger. There are few excavation sites for machina, and the village lacks in the trading supplies that a larger city such as Luca might offer. Claiming the empty temple of Djose with all its natural electricity is logical for an Al Bhed force, but why would he go to a jungle such as Kilika?

Even while I am wondering these things, I have turned my steps towards the Lustrates quarters. "Keep Dopha and Shelinda out of trouble if you can." The words are either order or suggestion -- I know not which even as I have spoken them, but Gella absorbs the sentence without complaint. "I'm not sure about the newer recruits, but please keep an eye out to make sure that they won't be assigned to any of the priests yet."

Judging from the low chuckle to my side, the woman would like nothing better than to halt the gears of New Yevon with as much vengeance as possible. "And yourself?"

"It looks as if I'll be traveling again." Thought of more days upon the ocean wring a sigh from my lungs. Suddenly the walkways to the dining hall are much too long, and the pathways back to my chambers to pack all the more so. "What I would not give for a machina vehicle such as the one the Lady Yuna used."

Gella's reply is skeptical, but sympathetic in the raise of her brow. "There're secrets enough in this place, but I don't think an airship's one of 'em. If you're going to hurry, you'd best do it fast."


	20. Chapter 20

By the time that the rowboats have slid upon the pale-sand beaches of Kilika, I can feel exhaustion dragging on every inch of my body. Humidity clouds the air. It attaches weights to my arms and legs, to the lids of my eyes, and to my mouth so that I yawn with every two steps of walking down the gangway.

The guards who followed me from Luca had been assembled once more for duty with remarkably little fuss. No protest came from them during my informal orders at sea. I instructed them to keep violence at a bare minimum if possible, to display no unified force assembled. If they had clothes to spare, their uniforms should remain unpacked. Leave all sign of Yevon hidden. Say nothing of our business here, but play at traders.

With luck, we may avoid difficulties this way.

Once we hit port, disembarking is performed a fair distance away from the actual town. Kilika has always suffered the most from Sin's ravages, being directly on the ocean and not sheltered by the natural cove defenses of Luca. The people here were in a constant state of reconstruction. Homes were only token buildings, as thin as reeds against Sin's wrath. Toxin was common. Deaths, equally so.

With Sin's defeat, the village has had to readjust to the idea of permanency. Ill weather will always remain to threaten the homes, but the fiend population has dropped, and now layers of architecture are being drawn up with intents of decades of use. Supplies have been brought in alongside construction. Life bustles.

A positive sign, but it makes for difficulty when trying to find a clear span of beach.

Our ship weighs anchor along a line of other vessels. Fishermen have taken a healthy trade with these warmer months; the nets that I see hauled and hooked upon the wide bellies of their boats are all plentiful, and laughter is called frequently upon the air. Some of Kilika's visitors are merchants. Others, travelers, freed to journey now that the threat of Sinspawn is greatly reduced.

Upon landing, I instruct two of the guards to find our lodgings. The rest, to spread out through the village. Kilika is not a vast town. If the Al Bhed is here, all I need to do is to look.

The initial sweep of the western half of the village reveals nothing. Conversations ricochet back and forth across the wooden dockways that double as sidewalks, suspended above the ocean water and swollen damp with moisture. I gather rumor of the latest clothing considered fashionable in Luca, the prices of bluewater fish, and one family's laundry that had apparently gone scattered free in a high wind the other day and plastered itself over another family's windows.

Phrases strain themselves out of the gossip-stew as I walk.

"The weather, you know, it's going to be like this for, oh... three more days..."

"Told her it wouldn't work! But she said she had an idea of how to fix it, she _said_ .."

"And _then_ the fiends just rose up over the rocks all at once, so I grabbed the machina like _this_ and fired..."

Following the captive gasps of the latter's audience, I redirect my steps along one of the side platforms. Wood groans quiet underneath my feet; the noise is concealed beneath the patter of the small crowd that has assembled in this corner of the port-village, whispering commentary to one another behind their hands.

Then, in the midst of a knot of bystanders, I see him.

Gippal.

The blond cock-ruff of his hair shines in the sunlight, gold against the darker hair of the Kilika people. The Al Bhed is pure animation. He is _alive_, pure and simple in the midst of all these politics, denying even the idea of death through sheer energy alone.

I am trapped looking at him. Hypnotized.

"Then the salvage crew went back to the boats 'cuz there wasn't anywhere else to go and -- _rumo vilgehk fayth_, Baralai, is it really _you?_"

His yelp penetrates the tale-spun spell. Numb to stop him, I can do nothing as the Al Bhed shoves his way through the gathering towards me, latching onto my arm in a fierce grip.

"See this?" he crows to the crowd. "This here's the _man!_ Baralai -- "

"Gippal." Bowing my shoulder against his exuberance, I fight to wrestle myself away. The last thing I need is to have announcement of my presence blared to every inch of this port. "I'm glad to see you, but -- "

"He's a pain in the ass when you need someone at a party, but lemme tell you, he's deeper than he looks -- "

"_Gippal._" My fingers tighten on the Al Bhed's hand. Surprised by the force, he looks down to me, solitary green eye wide with befuddlement.

The man's confusion defuses my need for immediate concealment. "In private," I offer. "Let's talk out of the way of everyone else."

Sensing that their entertainment has come to an end, the crowd begins to disperse in knots. Gippal follows the tug I apply to his sleeve. "I'm sorry," he says, fingers in motion to rub against his temple, against his clothes, a bundle of nervous energy. "It's just been, I mean, you know -- so _long!_ And I didn't expect to see you here -- "

"I know."

I do not trust standing in such an open area. Finding one of the smaller walkway twists, I haul the Al Bhed along behind me as he rambles apologies mixed with sputtered relief at my appearance. Only when we have fetched up against the end of a stunted pier do I turn, and finally regard the blonde.

"You're alive."

"I could say the same thing about you, man!" Voice lifting once more before he can catch it, Gippal flicks his hands up in the air in a helpless surrender. "How have you been?"

"I've been better." The phrase drops wry from my mouth. Rather than go into further details, I change tactics. "What about you, Gippal? What are you doing in a place like this?"

Readily swayed down the new path of conversation, the Al Bhed gives me a brisk nod, hair bobbing. "I heard stories -- nothing big, y'know, just rumors. Stuff about Nooj. They say," he continues in a sudden hush, glancing up and down the wooden piers, "that he's joined _Yevon_. As some kind of a Seeker, and he goes around and collects spheres, and he's been seen around _here_ the last couple of weeks..."

Inwardly cursing myself for not keeping better tabs on the Deathseeker's current assignments, I nod as blandly as I am able.

Gippal does not notice my silence, rattling along the carriage of his thoughts aloud as briskly as ever. "So, I thought... you know." The toe of his boot scrapes against a stack of boxes, absent-mindedly kicking at the wood. "Might as well come find him. I mean, I haven't seen you or Paine, not since the Highroad. Woke up one afternoon and you guys were gone."

No rancor is in Gippal's voice while he speaks; only a wistful pragmatism, coupled with a brow-lift of bewilderment.

"The clerk at the desk said she took off shortly after you did. And I've been thinking all this time. Before we lost Home, I figured we Al Bhed could just survive. Make it through, yeah? And then... I don't know anymore. Someone I met told me being a jackass was good, that you gotta make waves if you want to get shit done. Someone I completely didn't expect."

Startled out of my private thoughts, I consider the philosophy presented with such irreverence. "Who?"

"One of the High Summoner's Guardians." Lopsided in his grin, Gippal turns back to me, hooking his thumbs in his pants. "Never expected _that_ one, huh? Makes more sense, now that I know what she ended up doing. So, uh... where've you been? I was worried."

Suddenly, I do not want to admit that I have been among the Guado. I had arrived much too late to do anything about the attack on Home, but I am hesitant to speak of the truth. Even to Gippal. Of all the Squad, he is the only one I can look at who does not yet glare at me.

It is better for me to lie, or say nothing at all.

"I've been around." The evasiveness slips off my tongue with natural grace. "Here and there. I came down to Kilika looking for you."

"Oh!" Revelations paint Gippal's face pleased with relief. "You mean you heard of the spheres too? Yeah, I've got them." One hand dives into the inner pockets of his pants; groping around in a manner that would be provocative save for Gippal's utter nonchalance, the Al Bhed eventually produces a handkerchief rag that looks suspiciously as if it has been torn from someone else's shirt. One corner is unraveling. Grease stains are smeared across the sides.

Gippal hasn't changed one bit.

"Don't know why there's a fuss over them," the Al Bhed explains, unknotting the ties. "Complete accident. Doing a salvage venture off the coast, and came across this one sunk. A bunch of ships down there, most of them with Sin damage. Some of them a lot older too. Looks like Yevon cargo, judging from the machina parts mixed in. I had swimmers go down there, looked like a crate of records, most of it's paper that's been damaged. A few machina panels. And this stuff."

Finally the cloth comes free. The prize in Gippal's hand gleams a ruddy orange, wide as his palm, a streak of oil across the top.

Spheres.

Gippal found _spheres._

This is what I get for skipping out on Bevelle mission briefings.

I examine the evidence he presents with appropriate curiosity, falsifying a level of interest that is only minor at best. "Have you looked at any of the contents yet?"

"Nope." Bouncing the orb in his hand like a toy, Gippal spins colors off the surface. Red of fire, blue of the sea. "This one's pretty big. Must be good. But it's weird... Yevon's got this thing for collecting spheres now, right? To show off the past?"

A hollow second passes before I realize he is waiting for my nod of affirmation, and then he continues.

"Why?" Sharp-eyed wariness drills into me. "Yevon doesn't _like_ telling people about what's gone on. This new guy I hear, Trema, he's the one who's all up about it. It's creepy. I mean, Baralai," he winces, "I found one of _our_ spheres in that excavation. On one of the more recent ships, near the top of the debris."

"One of ours?" Startled, I parrot the phrase back.

"From the Squad." Gippal's confirmation is serious. "It freaks me out, to think that Yevon's got these people out _looking_ for this stuff. I don't want them to see my life. And this one's got--_cred_, Baralai, I don't ever want to see what's on that one again, and I sure don't want anyone _else_ to either."

I do not know if I want to hear the answer, but I steel myself to ask regardless.

"What... exactly is on that sphere from the Squad?"

"I don't know, man, it's got Nooj on it and he's... " Finger spider through the air again and again as Gippal's nerves twang as poorly as a novice minstrel's chords. "Turned it off halfway through when I realized what was going on. It's from the Highroad. You know, back when. Haven't watched it all yet. I got as far as seeing him shoot us in the back and then -- "

Repetitive thumps interrupt the litany, breaking the tense melody of Gippal's recall. Both of us fall silent. Summer winds whisper around the docks, carrying hints of marketplace laughter, and then a third voice pours itself upon the air.

"So what is it that I hear when I get into town, but that two of my old friends are having a get-together."

Words seep towards us as the speaker approaches, as thick and heavy as congealed honey.

"And they didn't invite me?"

Turning, I watch the crates stacked up near the entrance of the dead-end pier as the dull noise scrapes slowly closer, and then Nooj steps into sight.

Gippal, for once, is speechless.

The Deathseeker's metal leg drags as heavy as an executioner's axe as he pulls himself towards us. "I should have known New Yevon would send one of its flunkies sooner or later," he observes in my direction, murmuring. "So are you here to arrest Gippal... or just to watch while your soldiers do the actual dirty work?"

Stories move swift upon Kilika air. It could have been no trouble at all for Nooj to catch news of the Al Bhed visitor, particularly one who had interrupted his own story in order to meet with another. It wouldn't have been hard for him to guess who.

And that had given him time to prepare.

Gippal's eye darts between Nooj and myself, skittish as a fly. "What's he saying? Hey, Baralai," he repeats, voice wavering in its sun-bright confidence, "what's this about New Yevon?

"Go ahead, Baralai." Nooj's lips are light with a smirk as he draws himself to a halt and watches me, poised as smug as a battlefield victor. "Didn't you tell him yet? How you're one of them now. Go on. I think he deserves to know."

Staring at the Deathseeker, I am unsettled to realize how quickly violence is becoming a remarkable temptation.

The swell of anger is forced away. I shoot one last glare at the Deathseeker before looking steadily back to the Al Bhed. Or so I try. In reality, I stare at Gippal's stomach, at his legs, at his ear rather than meet the Al Bhed's eye directly.

"It's true, Gippal."

Gippal's hands break into motion. "Oh man, oh man," he moans, shoving his fingers into his hair as he stares at me, stomps his feet in distress. "_You_ joined Yevon? What were you _thinking_? Baralai! Are you _crazy_? Do you need to get _laid_? _What_?"

"I did because I wanted to find out what was going on!" Stung by the possible accusations, I snap my head towards him. "I'm here as Bevelle's representative, not as a military force. We're not here to do anything to you, Gippal, please calm down!"

Gippal whirls on me, his fingers spread plaintively. The sphere in his hand gleams hot in the sun.

"Yeah? So what _is_ going on?"

I open my mouth to speak, and then shut it once more.

"If you'll excuse me." Nooj's interjection cuts smoothly between us. "Some of us don't have _time_ to quarrel." Another long scrape, and he pulls himself a step closer. "As a registered Seeker of Yevon, I have come to collect what is my due. I'm afraid that sphere you have belongs to me now, Gippal. Would you be so kind as to hand it over?"

My eyes snap to the Deathseeker. Before I can stop it, I am speaking. "You'll be taking nothing, Nooj. The sphere should be turned over to me. As Trema's acolyte, I -- "

"Trema?" Gippal jerks away from us both, spitting out the Founder's name in blonde horror. He backpedals, stumbling over a coil of rope in his haste, slapping his empty hand upon a storage crate with an empty thump. The impact causes his fingers to open as he waves his other arm desperately to regain his balance, dropping the record sphere like a stone from the sky.

The sphere hits the dock. Rolling. It veers dangerously along the Kilika walkway, dodging one break in the wooden boards before an irregularity in the dock's surface sends it careening off towards the edge.

We explode into motion. Nooj tries to throw himself forward, but stumbles down to one knee when his own limp trips him up. His cane clatters against the dock. I collide with Gippal, getting tangled in the taller Al Bhed's limbs when we both attempt to dive for the sphere.

My chin bounces off the dock. Gippal's ribcage goes pressing into the side of my head, and when I kick a heel out automatically, I think I hear Nooj grunt at the impact.

The Al Bhed's fingers scramble over the crystal. It clicks.

Light bathes us all as the playback activates.

First rises the translucent pitch of darkness projected through light; the scene which rises out of the sphere is one enclosed in shadow, dimly lit by all save the scrambled blue of Yevon script. Yellow boots enter the frame of reference next. A man, a young one, treading a pathway that leads to the bulk of a shadowed beast.

I find my breathing slow. By the shallow pulse of Gippal's ribs by my face, I know his has as well.

I remember that man. The scratchy quality of the record flickers, wailing static through the display, but I could not forget the features of that blonde figure no matter how hard I tried. Yellow boots, shorts, red-woven straps. Gloved hands.

It is the same man as was in the memories forced inside us during the Den of Woe.

The room, I recognize twice over now; it is the underground chamber which cradles Vegnagun, and by that I suddenly realize just what is on this sphere. It is a directional map to remind all three of us from the Squad of the nightmare that has haunted us since the Den, and now it is turned on for display.

The horns of the locust-skull frame the unknown stranger. The print of Yevon scrolls around them both.

Behind me, I hear Nooj's gritty whisper of revelation. "Bevelle."


	21. Chapter 21

Yevon ciphers paint holes on Kilika docks. Color called out of the Underground lies in streaks across the wooden planks, the curve of building timbres, and plays in ripples upon the ocean water. We are surrounded by memory.

I recognize the chamber. The sphere shows the Underground; the Yevon runes are plain as day, shining around the huddled bulk of Vegnagun. The figure in black and blonde whispers something half-lost amidst the static. Faux-shadows roll against the noontime sun.

Then the lights go out, and I remember to breathe again.

Gippal closes his mouth from where his jaw was hanging open. His words are hushed.

"That is one. .. _vilgehk_ _awesome_ sphere."

Nooj is lying behind us both, sprawled like a casualty of an understated war; Gippal recovering fastest, as he always does. The Al Bhed is up on his feet in a flash, yanking himself away from me with such haste that the puffed segments of his boots scrape by my cheek, knock against my jaw. He scoops up the sphere in a roll of his hand that brings it closer to his chest.

Trapped, the glow of the sphere hums. It bathes the Al Bhed's torso in crimson, and all I can think of is blood.

And the Highroad.

"Give it to me." Nooj's voice is hard poison. Metal clatters upon the dock; his hand clamping down on my ankle frees me from memory, and I recognize the immediacy of the moment.

"No." My interruption is almost as harsh as the Deathseeker, coming as fast as it does. "Gippal, give it to me. _Please._"

Instinct rouses me to kick again, rolling as I do. Nooj growls a sound in his throat when my heel skims the air past his head. He releases his grip upon me; I scramble up to my feet, crouched with one hand upon the nearest shipping crate.

All through this, Gippal has been watching us both. His face silent, smile banked like a river gone frozen in winter ice. The porttown breeze lend his only life, ruffling his hair as wheat, timed to the sporadic blinking of his eye.

Glimpsing this uncustomary expression, I suddenly have a vision of what Nooj and I must look like -- struggling like beasts upon the ground, stripped sour by our own quarrel.

One shift of my weight and Gippal snatches his shoulders hunched. The sphere flickers; I halt in an instant, afraid that further sudden movements might break this quarrel through the Al Bhed's departure. Behind me, I hear dead silence instead of Nooj's cane-scrape. Even he has gone still. Waiting.

I shouldn't have worried. Gippal eases out of his tense defense once we both stop looking as if we will wrestle the record sphere from him. His face dives into a frown. "You guys are acting _seriously_ messed up about this." One of his fingers jabs towards me. "And did I hear you wrong, Baralai, or did you say you were working for that Trema guy?"

"Gippal--"

"No way." The Al Bhed's denial is firm. "This sphere's staying with _me_."

"Gippal!"

"You." A gloved hand spikes the air between the Al Bhed and Nooj, finger jabbing aggressive. "I don't _know_ about you right now, Nooj. But you're acting _seriously_ out of whack, man, even for a Deathseeker."

I start to straighten from my defensive hunch, pulling myself upright in a fledgling's motion that scrapes against the boards.

At the noise, the turret of Gippal's finger swings to bear upon me. "That goes for you too, Baralai! I mean," flummoxed, the Al Bhed's words break, plaintive, "fighting over a sphere like this? What gives? It's not like it's got us on it! We're in no danger!"

Frustration pulls my voice strained. "It's not just any sphere, Gippal! It shows the presence of--" Caution rings prayer bells in my head, and I continue after a glance to Nooj. "Something we _all_ know is important. You can't just let that get handed around, not when--"

"It's a reminder to those who have forgotten certain paths over the years." Nooj's contribution to the conversation cuts through my own, blunt machete's blow breaking my defense. "But more than that, it's a way to keep Bevelle from ever hiding its secrets in peace again. That... _city_ deserves what's coming to it."

Surprised by the venom of the Deathseeker's words, the Al Bhed stares. "Oh, so now you're picking a fight with a city along with its religion? Nooj!" Blonde brow knit in vexation, Gippal throws up his empty hand. "Man! None of us have any reason to _like_ Bevelle, or Yevon, but it's not like there's a reason to _crusade_ against 'em like that!"

Gippal has never been a leader. He does not have the temperament for it, the _will_ \--and yet now, watching him face off against myself and Nooj, single swirl-eye unerring, I can understand why the Al Bhed have gathered to follow him. A lack of complication is equally charismatic. As is a lack of grudges.

I think Gippal has not even realized his own position yet.

"That's it." Gippal's final decision comes with a pressing of his lips into a hard line. He tosses the sphere up in a hand, pitching it to himself where he wraps the crystal back in its cloth. "You guys _both_ need a time-out. No one's getting this sphere but me. Got it? _No one._" Fingers fist around the orb before he squirrels it back into his pocket, shoving it away. "Not until you guys start acting normal, okay?"

My protest scrambles out my mouth, forcing an exasperated, "Gippal! Just wait, please!"

And then he is gone.

Two choices. I can stay here and confront Nooj. Or I can try to catch an old friend and his sphere first.

In scrambling to catch up with Gippal, I almost collide with one woman carrying a basket of fruit balanced in her arms. She yelps in protest; a panicked stumble and I am steadying her, filling the air with apologies. By the time I manage to recover, the foot-traffic of Kilika has swallowed the blonde Al Bhed in every direction that I look, devouring him without even a pyrefly left to guide my path.

The bustle of Kilika's restoration feels muted as I stride down the main walkways. I filter through the crowds. Snap-tracks of conversation catch around me, stringing a web of gauzy words, one that I break through effortlessly as I press my way back down the docks.

It feels as if everyone is watching me. Everyone heard the argument, saw the fight. Everyone knows.

Dinner in Kilika involves a type of fish I cannot identify, mixed with vegetables I have no interest in. I pick at it, lacking all appetite, before finally shoving the plate away and heading up the poorly-hammered stairs.

The guards return in straggled clumps by the end of the eve. We have rented a room in one of the local inns; without any official announcement of our purpose here, we pay common prices and are mixed with the other travelers. I suspect that it might be for the best, to dodge possible anti-Yevon sentiment, but there's something to be said for not having to wait for a shower.

A pair of my guards are in each room on the sides of my own rented bed. If I am to be attacked by Nooj in the middle of the night, they should be alert and ready. While the possibility is slight that the Deathseeker would wish trouble, and I have not advised them specifically upon the man, I take some comfort in knowing that my walls are guarded enough to let me sleep.

Nooj. He would not dare cause trouble.

Would he?

With these thoughts heavy as chemist toxins in my mind, the first strike that snaps at my window screams of machina shots to my paranoid nerves.

One slap, like the clawing of bird-talons. Then a second. Gloved fingers appear, pawing over the glass in a fumbling search for grooves, latches, any manner of leverage by which it can try to pull the window open. The intruder must be splayed down from the roof, judging by the angle.

I reach over in a slow hunt for the machina pistol beneath my bed, and then I realize I know the insolent dexterity of those hands.

The fingers on my window are familiar. The gloves as well, buckled around the wrists, white-rimmed to the knuckles while purple beyond. Loose ties.

But mostly, I recognize the man's _pants _as he starts to slip off the roof and slams his leg into the window, the smear of magenta and black that scrambles against my vision in all its poor-taste glory. His knee presses against the glass. Seconds later, Gippal's head twists into view. I watch him mouth what is clearly my name, exaggerated, along with a desperate jab of his finger at the windowlatch.

_Open it_, I think he is saying, but the effect is so comical that I find myself staring.

For a moment, I debate leaving him there.

Then I am already up and walking, moving in swift strides towards where the Al Bhed dangles. Two clicks and the panes are unlatched, swinging inwards; Gippal's foot almost kicks me in the head as he tries to wriggle in before I have fully stepped away.

"What are you doing here, Gippal?" Hissed, my voice mixes with the tide-chorus of the outer docks. "You'll wake up the entire floor!"

There are guards around us both; I can only imagine what they would think if they investigated my bedroom and found an Al Bhed faction rogue here. My first question melts away into the second. "How did you find us?" I hadn't noticed the guards dressing in their uniforms, and we flew no banner of display when our ship came to port. The high-necked jacket that I prefer has been packed away for now, in order to avoid the sweat of the Kilikan summer.

Thankfully, the answer is simpler than I feared. Gippal's shrug is performed with one shoulder, the other already relaxing into a cat's insolent ease.

"Asked around after you. Not hard."

Forced to accept the lacksidasical logic by which the Al Bhed lives, I step away from the window at last. Gippal slides his feet to the floor, leaning upon the sill with both hands and blotting out the twilight with his body.

"So what's going on with you and Nooj? And... have you seen Paine at all?"

The questions buffet me like angry bees. I turn my head rather than look at the Al Bhed directly during my reply, speaking to the corners of my bed rather than a human being.

"Paine isn't here. And I hope she stays away."

A blonde brow jerks upwards, quirks. "That's cold, man. Not like you used to be on her."

Panache was not appreciated tonight. "What else do you think I should do right now, Gippal?" Now it is my hand shaking the air, hunting for an invisible answer. "She's alive. As long as I try to keep her from being involved, she might remain that way."

It is then that the knocking comes upon my door.

"Lord Baralai!" A voice only marginally familiar hails me; the title is more recognizable than the man who uses it. Dimly, I recall it as belonging to one of the guards. "We've heard reports of an intruder! Are you safe?"

Great.

"I'm fine!" I shout back, a shepherd's call against the wolf. "I haven't seen anything!"

Neither myself nor Gippal dare to speak until the thunder of boots recedes down the hall. I should not have underestimated guards who hold good faith with me. This is the same problem I had with the Lustrum -- having won their favor, I also earned their protectiveness.

Even when it is inconvenient.

Gippal sighs like a chipmunk, rolling out his cheeks with his breath. "Can't even spit around here," he challenges me with, a lopsided grin, "can you?"

I acknowledge the honesty of this with a rueful shake of my head. "There's not much time." Sudden nervousness causes me to wet my lower lip with my tongue, and then I press ahead. "About... spheres, Gippal. It could be a great help if you and the Al Bhed you work with could keep an eye out on your excavations. You don't need to join New Yevon," I suggest. My words are placid. Practical. "Just... send us some of them. That's all--"

"No _vilgehk_ way." He interrupts me with a hard motion of his hand, slashing through the air. "_That_ stuff? Nothing but trouble. You can count me _out_ of it from now on. You and Nooj can go crazy all you want over them. Not me."

Bootsteps bringing him to the center of my room, Gippal pauses before he swivels on one heel, waving his finger at me.

"I like you, Baralai." The Al Bhed's mouth is back into its serious line, long with a crook at the end that betrays his natural jubilance despite the matter at hand. "We owe each other. But don't ask me to pick sides, okay? 'Cuz that's just going to drive me just as crazy too."

My exhalation aloud is a paper's scrape, tired.

"I understand."

The silence sits awkward between us, forced to linger like a guest too unwanted to even be shown the door.

Gippal interrupts it first.

"About the sphere with Vegnagun..."

"Yes?"

Another drawn pause, the Al Bhed's eye upon the floor. One of his boots twists its toes against the ground; the sand-grit of the beaches causes it to rasp where he applies pressure. "I've... I've got something for you. I think... you should be the one to hold onto it."

Against my relieved disbelief, Gippal's hand fumbles inside his pockets, producing first a wrench, then a bolt, and then finally the same dirtied cloth that wrapped itself around the Vegnagun sphere before. A flash of crimson crystal peeks out from within. An _awesome_ sphere, he'd called it. I'd thought it horrific.

"Here you go, man."

I accept the ominous weight of the record sphere into my cupped palms. Surprise has strangled my voice in its sleep. There is nothing I can say.

Gippal is similarly quiet as he watches me. He fills in the silence when he speaks. "Me and the rest of the crew, we'll be heading back to Djose after this." The phrase is hushed before he clears his throat, attempts to continue after he jerks his thumb back towards the window. "Any surprises on the way you think we should be aware of?"

The sharpness in Gippal's eye pulls me out of my thoughts, and I realize he is speaking to me as one representative to another, two forces politically askew.

"No."

No. The Temple will be safe. At least, as much as I can keep it so.

Then hammering cracks the air; a fist to my door, again and again. "Lord Baralai!" The guards, returned. Frantic. "The intruder was reported on the roof! You might be in danger!"

"Sounds like my cue to exit." Remarkably unworried despite the danger, Gippal delivers a swaggered grin in my direction. "Don't want this party getting too big, y'know?"

I risk a feverish look back to the door, and then once more to the Al Bhed.

He grins. Mischievous. And then prods again, question gentle. "Right, Baralai?"

"... right, Gippal."

His head inclines towards me. The gesture, I mirror, and then the blonde is sweeping one leg over the windowsill, one final flash of merry teeth.

"Lord Baralai!"

When the guards push the door open at last, I have already finished latching the window shut.

The morning tides come early. As the dawn opens, it finds us upon them. My orders to depart the port were accepted without protest; the guards do not understand, show no eagerness to return to the strictures of Bevelle, but there is no challenge of my authority from them. I have already demonstrated to them once in Luca that I demand little in the way of enforced respect. Perhaps that is helping me win their loyalty.

We have no threat upon the ship. Sin's departure has left the seas free at last, save for the occasional fiend, but those primarily prey upon fisherfolk. Armed with harpoons and machina rifles, my guards spend their hours in dice games and conversation. Some of them have begun to hate seafood. Others have taken a fondness of it. Luca is compared to Kilika. Blitzball season is discussed.

Once we are far enough away from Kilika, I pull myself away from them in order to watch the sphere.

My cabin is windowless. It is safe, secure in the belly of the ocean-vessel, and I lie upon my bed watching the way the lantern mounted in the ceiling swings. Candlelight spatters. I track the swing of it, the swaying of the tides that buoy me in their reach, and then I pull the record sphere from out my vest.

The grease-stained handkerchief that Gippal used has not been untangled from the Al Bhed's knots; several minutes go by while I tug at the ends, remembering the blonde's deftness displayed long ago. My boots had paid the price back then, in Bikanel. Lacking a knife, I am forced to resort to patience, and finally coax the cloth free.

Red is my reward. It pools over my fingers and over the irregular timbers of the hull. I admire the weight of the crystal as it counts itself in my palms, and then I frown.

That's strange. I thought the Vegnagun sphere was larger than this.

My thumb depresses the playback.

A snap of wavering display, and the camera angle tilts into a steadier position. One broken building comes into focus. The ocean, beyond. Grass, short and sparse, painted around the inside of my bunk. A sky filled with all the colors of sunset, picketed by occasional clouds rolling lazy in the distance.

This is _not_ the Bevelle Underground that I expected.

Red meets green, blue, purple and silver--three figures resolve in the image, set upon a grassy hill I know all too well. It took me months to shake the nightmares the first time.

Paine's voice murmurs in my ear.

"I want to know... what it was you all saw back there."

Transfixed by the events as viewed by our Team's recorder, I watch the promises exchanged on the hill outside the Travel Agency. The camera angle swings; Paine had been looking in all kinds of directions at the time, uncomfortable and hesitant to ally herself to our group even though she had run all the way down Mushroom Rock looking for us.

That mixture of assertiveness and fear--that was Paine. That has always been her, as I recall.

I never heard the words she said back then, on the Highroad. Truthfully enough, I had no idea she was filming us when Gippal and I said our farewells to Nooj.

And I did not realize just how Nooj had tried to kill her.

The playback terminates automatically after the crack of machina fire. As the static crawls over the surface of the record, I press the toggle once more, kill the repetition of history revealed. Considering the subject matter, it is understandable why the Al Bhed did not want to finish watching this sphere. I wonder if he would have given it to me anyway if he knew what was contained entirely within.

I have watched enough to understand what has happened. Gippal swapped the spheres he found, fooling me in the switch. He chose neither of us. The unexpected route--I should have remembered that as well, from old desert ruses in training.

Between myself and Nooj, our two poles of warring options, Gippal found a way to win out after all.

Paine does not show up directly in this encapsulated moment of history. I hold her in my grasp only by illusion. If I wanted, I could activate the playback once more, listen to her speak. Remember the sound of her voice. Fall asleep with the wry harmony of those words trickling into my ears and reminding me of dreams involving feathers and sand.

If only the price did not involve watching her be shot. Over and over. By Nooj.

_I want to know... what it was you all saw back there._

Watching the darkened sphere, I repeat my own words back to her memory.

"We'll figure it out one of these days," I whisper. "We'll tell you then."


	22. Chapter 22

I do not know when I started thinking of Bevelle's temple as home. For all that I have grown up within the city, learning the canal-graced walkways and hearing the distant chimes of the hour tolled, the center of Yevon has ever been a foreign, priest-ridden place. Yet, between the time my ship has disembarked and I have hauled my supplies through the front gates, I have given thanks at least once to have returned.

The doorways pull back. My head lifts like an animal scenting a familiar stall; my name is called in greeting by the guards, and I am welcomed into the temple as if I belong there.

Judging by the lightening of tension in my shoulders, it is true. I am home.

Bevelle is ever-cooler in comparison to the warmer regions, muggy by degrees. Fountains pour their clear waters in a never-ending bubble. It is not uncommon to catch a guard pausing in their daily patrols to kneel, cup a handful of fluid, and bathe their face free from grime. I do the same at the stairwells leading to the Lustrum heights. Dipping my fingers into the nearest font, I splash my skin once, and taste the season from a drop that creeps its way into my mouth.

My face stares back at me from the wavering reflection below.

A year ago, I had come to New Yevon with a machina wound still fresh upon my body. The Lustrum acolytes were only names to me; I did not trust them, did not expect them to become involved with my life. My plots were risky to begin with, and yet now, they have grown to encompass New Yevon itself.

Did I look like this, so many months ago? Were my eyes colder then, or have even I changed at all?

Droplets scatter from my hand when I give a shake of my wrist, and my features shatter, the water's mirror broken.

With summer already beginning its gradual secession to fall, the shadows cast by the walkways spread long and full. I walk between gradations of light. The turns are taken without forethought; I pace my way back to the Lustrates halls with a sleepwalker's patience, and find my mind busy with uncertain suspicions.

Gippal is right. It's uncustomary for Nooj to be bloodthirsty. It is as if I am seeing a side of him that never existed before. Everything the Deathseeker has done seems deliberately to encourage a rise out of me--and I do not know why. What use does Nooj have if I hate him?

Does he secretly want for me to stop his plans?

Half of how he has behaved is performed in that droll cynicism of his; that part is familiar, tied in with memories of desert moons and canvas tents. The rest is foreign. Strange. As unexpected as the bullet that left scars in my skin twice-over, this hatred for Bevelle and unreasoning taste for destruction.

Whatever happened to us in the Den of Woe, it has made Nooj a stranger to all I understood him to be.

If I pooled what I knew with Gippal, we might be able to figure this out. With him, or even with Nooj if we were able--limited cooperation might get to the bottom of this, if only through observation.

But I cannot see Nooj without one of us taking a jab at the other. And Gippal has already professed his desire to stay out of it.

I can't trust Nooj. Even though I might want to get to the bottom of this mystery, I can't bring myself to believe in him once more. It's as if some lynchpin to bridge our gaps has been removed--separated, we hang apart, clatter like spokes on a wagon wheel removed.

We argue. Already, we have begun to fight. And somewhere out there, lost from our circles, Paine still struggles to discover what happened to break the Team.

What are we all going to do?

We can't bring each other together, no matter how we might want to. Blood does not wash out of snow.

Resignation attends me while I take the last flight of stairs up through the Lustrates halls, passing set after set of guards. Loose ends bury themselves in the dirt of my past. Gippal. Nooj. The Crimson Squad. Vegnagun. All these, I must confront in the future; I must do this without my former team if necessary, even if it brings disaster.

Only when my fingers touch the door to my room do I realize what I have forgotten.

Paine. I had promised to try and find her the next time that I departed Bevelle. With news of Gippal spread all over the ports and Nooj drawn there beside, I cannot assume that our former recorder would not have found her way to Kilika. Too, my brief meeting with Gippal. My hasty departure besides.

I didn't wait to see if she was there. She must think that I'm a liar. No message left, no chance to meet. Nothing.

It is far too late to run back to the port. I can only hope Paine will be willing to speak to me again on our next encounter.

My room smells of summer must, the peculiar dryness of air warmed over by the cycle of days hitting high noon before they quell themselves in night once more. The sparse emptiness of the chamber greets me like a relative gone comatose in a medical bed. Nothing has changed while I was away. Everything is silent, recognizing me even while expecting that I will journey anew.

When I reach for the tableside lights, the lamp that comes first to my fingers sheds blue oceans across the stone. Daylight meets the drapes and filters a dull orange to match; there is no war of colors today, lacking the fire of winter.

Automatically, my gaze hunts out the hollowed flagstone near the fireplace, but there is no need for me to check if my secrets have been found in my absence. There has not been ever since I sold that Crimson Sphere to Trema.

The satchel goes on the bed. A few arbitrary snaps undone and I am dragging out the clothing which needs to be sent for a wash, which would be the most of it. These, I leave upon the sheets for now, staring down upon the casualties of Kilika as marked by the sea-salt stained fabric.

A knock scrapes the silence.

"Baralai?"

"Come in," I call back, abandoning the clothes for now. Two steps brings me nearer to the windows, and I begin to yank open the drapes and introduce sun to my bedroom.

The door squeaks open behind me. I frown at the dust that has accumulated on one of the windowpanes, and then rub at it with a hand.

"Baralai!" My name repeated turns my attention back to my guest, in time to watch as the tousled head of Dopha nods twice in relieved greeting. "I heard your ship would be coming in later, but it looks like the winds have favored you? How was your trip?"

Wading through the grateful babble, I abandon the window and cross to properly regard the other. Summer has not altered Dopha. Though the hour is well after noon, he remains dressed in the simpler robes of an acolyte, rather than the thrice-layered formalities of a full Lustrum. His hair remains raked into short, stubby fencepoles that bear evidence of the scholar's forgetfulness, an ill habit of rubbing his skull when deep in thought. The smile is wide upon his face.

By the look of it, I would estimate that Dopha has not yet been reselected by a priest. All the Lustrum must be free at ease, this entire class of new trainees that have slipped the nets of Yevon's tradition. Somasil wrought better than he knew, to drive a schism built by wariness between the ranks.

The younger members of the temple are gaining dominance. It's a satisfying feeling.

Kilika takes sparse concentration to recall as I rattle off the basic specifications of the port to answer Dopha's curiosity. The number of docked ships is pulled like vague taffy from my mind; the veracity does not really matter, nor the cosmetic affairs such as the fish served for dinner, or the ever-present heat.

Of Gippal, I say little. Gella knows I had gone traveling because of the eyepatched Al Bhed, so I cannot deny his presence; the encounter with Nooj, however, is completely glossed over and forgotten. Any talk of spheres is discarded. As far as I intend to describe, the intrusion of New Yevon was officially centered around the Al Bhed, and nothing more.

Unable to sit still while he listens, the Lustrum paces across my chamber, placing his feet heel-to-toe while he measures out the spatial allowance of my sleeping quarters. At last he turns on one heel, a precise forty-five degree angle that is unconsciously mimicked by an elbow at his waist, and thrusts forth a question. "Are you going to report to Trema?"

"I have no choice." My sigh carries itself across the room, slicing over the path that Dopha has been tracing with his body. "He'll want to know why I was absent so unexpectedly."

Interrupted between the angle of my dresser and the bed, the acolyte roughs one hand through his hair. "Do you... want me to come _with_ you?"

Dopha's solemnity ill befits him, coming from a man so normally unconcerned with courage. Despite the rarity of the offer, I refuse. "No. I want you to stay and keep an eye on Shelinda. Nothing's happened to her yet," I add, only now realizing I have not given thought to the mouse-tempered woman otherwise, "has it? Or to Gella?"

The Lustrum gives a shake of his head, unbrushed locks scattering.

Such news is a relief. "Give Shelinda work orders if you can. Keep her out of the way, as busy as possible. As for Gella," I continue, returning to one of the windows just in time to watch a patrol of guards take their ascent across a lower bridge, "tell her to keep her eyes open, and to be ready."

Dopha has never been the bravest of us. Hearing warnings from me brings his eyes wide, white, and nervous. "Is something going to happen, Baralai?"

The Lustrum's words set definition to the heaviness of the air. I answer, and hear my own voice gone wary with caution.

"I'm not sure, Dopha."

There is a shortcut through the back of a presentation hall from the Lustrum heights to the Founder's tower, and I take it with aplomb, crossing on the fringe of a machina presentation already in progress. Shadows flicker as the display screens swap images, the lecturer droning patiently on as he describes the reliance upon established procedure in order to minimize malfunctions.

I walk out just as he is beginning to introduce machina rifles, and then I am gone.

The sphere from Kilika rests hidden beneath my vest, concealed from the pairs of guards that stand at each intersection of the temple. New Yevon's gears twist onward, secretly betraying all the priests and their traditions with them.

Trema. He's right, when I think about it. There is no way to salvage Yevon from its thousand year-old sin without abandoning the past--not unless another thousand years were to be sacrificed in reparations. But all must be done carefully. Exactingly. Trema's vision is solid, but his power may be too revolutionary; he is the only one who believes whole-heartedly in his future, and that leaves the rest of us expendable if need be.

I would be a fool if I thought Trema to hold trust in the younger generation without retaining a fail-safe should we rise against him in turn. As we gain power, he will not leave us free rein forever. My own bargain with the Founder leaves me obedient so long as he destroys the records from the Crimson Squad--I have no guarantee that he will not retain at least one of them, in event of blackmail.

Trema's power is unmeasured.

I do not like that.

Doubt twists in my mind like a severed worm as I take the final stairs up the tower, finding the Founder's study closed before me. Seeing Gippal has reminded me that there are more paths than I might be resigned to. By the time I have unlatched the handles to let myself inside, the Al Bhed's advice has worked its way into my mind, and I find my thoughts brewing.

Trema had heard my knock; present, the Founder stands interrupted at one of his bookshelves. Crates once again line the bulk of his study. Processed tags peek out from between the wooden slats. The heat of summer has risen, bubbling up through the tower's hollow innards to bob like a child's balloon in the rooftop of the study, and it sets the air humid and heavy.

When Trema turns to face me, I am nearly overcome by a sudden whiff of rot.

"Baralai." The Founder speaks, and now gone is the stench, almost as if it were a dream but for the lingering sour-reek in my nostrils. "So you have decided to return from your errand at last. How was, ah... Kilika?"

Old man's ruminations ring hollow as a clock tower. Trema's voice still quavers, but there is a quality slipping in his words, a pretense improperly worn. There is no carpet pulled back this time to hint at what I might be missing, but I do not doubt that signals remain.

"It was fair, my lord." I speak over my own disquiet, shoulders straight as I ignore the unease. "I encountered the Al Bhed and his faction, and estimated that they would not be a threat. After doing so, I returned to Bevelle to report my findings."

A twist moves on Trema's mouth. Fast as a fly, it buzzes, and then departs to beat itself to death in a hidden corner of the room. "You did not even propose your trip to me in person before you left. I expected _more_ than, mm, a _notification_ delivered to my desk, Baralai."

Now, in confrontation, I realize why my instincts have been hissing against my hindbrain. In the long gaps involving my absences, Trema has changed. Slowly, of course--slow even for an instigator against Bevelle, but there are differences. The old man's quaver remains, but his words depart frequently from their humming, senile tempo. He ignores his own mask of age, and that means he is dangerous.

"Do you bring me back justification for your absence, Baralai, along with your commandeering of the teams which would have otherwise reclaimed Djose's Temple? I had wondered about your haste to Kilika, until I received reports that spheres had been located there. And yet you bring me back nothing. Is that... _all_ you discovered there?"

The question is burdened with reproach. I hesitate, and then plunge ahead in a thin thread of hope. "Yes, my lord. There was nothing else of note."

The dry chuckle of Trema's laughter holds nothing of amusement in its withered grasp. "All this time, Baralai, and you have not yet learned that you cannot conceal such things from me. I sense what you are holding back." His proximity once more introduces a wave of cloying disease upon the air; moving towards me like a shade-fiend, slow menace dressed in endless patience, Trema halts himself a spare handful of feet away. "Within your jacket, inside the second pocket. A sphere. Did you not even think to share it with me?"

Decorum makes it proper for me to drop my eyes in shame. I do so, but only because it is sloppy to have forgotten the Founder's inexplicable talent.

All is not lost. My eyes avert themselves. "It is not that, my lord." As if unable to hide the truth, I whisper my answer woodenly. "I found... a sphere that revealed the location of Vegnagun. I had forgotten about it."

"Forgotten?" White brows pull themselves up, the surprise as cynical as a marionette on the fiftieth act of the night. "That is not at all like you, Baralai. But ah... I can _feel_ the pyreflies bottled up inside, forced to bear the weight of memories inscribed upon them. How can you let your spirit ignore such a call?"

Pyreflies.

"I sense nothing, my lord."

"Can you not hear them? Their energies whispering to your own…" The Founder reaches out an age-spotted finger to stroke it down the front of my tunic, and I draw back instinctively, repulsed, before I realize that Trema is touching the cloth over the sphere. Even armed with that knowledge, I find myself holding my breath deep in my lungs.

Decaying sweetness crawls into my nostrils, pushing its way down my throat.

The Founder does not stop running his hand on my jacket. The interest is unnatural. "In time, boy. You will hear them too. There is much left to learn. And I will teach it to you when you are ready. When you can survive the tests required of you..."

In self-defense, I slide my hand into my vest and tug out the sphere, wrapped as it still is in Gippal's oil-rag.

"Here, my lord. I apologize for my... lapse of memory. I will put it with the others."

True to form, Trema's attention breaks away from me; drawn towards the cloth-covered record, the Founder twists his fingers towards the sphere. "This, then... this is your prize from Kilika? Your Vegnagun secret?"

My mind flashes to the memory of a single green eye, stained in Al Bhed swirls.

"Yes."

"Play it."

"It only shows the chamber in the Underground, my lord." Trapped, I smother my own fear as neatly as a rabbit beneath a bedsheet. "Little more than that. When I heard that there was a sphere in Kilika, I thought the chances were too high that it might be one which revealed Bevelle's technology. As a port town, Kilika's traveling population is second to Luca's," I continue, lifting my head as I wrestle with the flow of the discussion. "The risks of exposure are far too great, particularly with the Al Bhed in the region. If New Yevon had responded to the Djose Al Bhed as a potential threat, it might cause them to suspect that we are hiding something from them after all."

"Kilika." Trema responds to my hasty defensiveness as desired. The inhuman cast upon his features passes; wrestling himself away from whatever song the pyreflies might have entranced him with, the Founder turns away and begins to stroll back towards his desk. "Are you certain that your haste, mm, it was _not_ because Nooj was stationed near the port?"

My skin is dark. I have always thanked that fact; it helps to hide the rapid flush. Thoughts of the Deathseeker bring frustration in tow. "It isn't that. Machina prejudice, if continued, will only restrict future advancements from New Yevon." Months at Bevelle have made my tongue quick; knowing the angle that Trema pursues, I tailor my rationales to fit. "Even though it will be impossible to work with Al Bhed directly for the time being, I believe we can still benefit."

In the freefall quiet of Trema's study, my words soar to the roofbeams and find themselves dying from heat.

After a time, Trema stirs. "Yes, this is true. If you desire power, you must be willing to shed the restrictions which keep you from it. These things of the past that hold you back... mm, _memory,_ yes, that would be it." One of his hands pushes a stack of paper aside on his desk, and he turns back towards me, gaze as steady as a hawk's. "I believe it is time to proceed with another stage of New Yevon's, ah... development. Reports state that the Seekers have collected a full crop of spheres. It is time that we put them to use."

Memories. Chains of the past, limitations--I have heard Trema speak of this again and again, until I can parrot back his own beliefs in my sleep. I have followed what he has said. There is a value in his philosophy that has been a lever out of my own quagmire with the Crimson Squad; it explains nothing of the Founder's powers, however, his intimacy with pyreflies. Nor his attraction.

These things, I do not understand.

"Will you be destroying them now, my lord?"

"Such a release of pyreflies outside of the Farplane is unsafe if not performed near a Summoner." A snort is my reward for such a reckless question. "No. I will soon be traveling deep within Bevelle, into the labyrinth known as the Via Infinito. You must pack the crates of spheres for me upon the lists, and deliver them so that they may be destroyed. Do not journey any deeper than the first entrance, boy," he chastens me when I perform an arbitrary nod of obedience. "The Via is a living thing. It will swallow you if you are, ah... _unwary_. Leave the crates at the surface, and I will be able to handle them from there."

My eyes flicker to the sides, tallying the study's worth of records that I can account for from one simple glance.

"All of them, my lord?"

Not every sphere collected in this room details illicit activities. New Yevon's Seekers have been indiscriminate. Wedding ceremonies are mixed in with trader's tales, messages passed on to family members which speak of nothing more wicked than the color of Macalania's forests at dawn. For every record that implies ill of New Yevon, there are at least a dozen more that have been gathered for no other purpose than that they happen to be a memento of the past.

"All."

Boxes upon boxes hold the treasures of Spira's memory. It would take days to tally up all these spheres anew and realize just how many stories will be so carelessly destroyed. And my sphere, labeled Vegnagun--I will smuggle it so deeply down that Trema will not realize my deception until it is too late. If he manages to catch it at all.

"Yes, my lord." Deftly tucking the sphere away into my vest, I spend the time upon a ritual bow to help deflect Trema's attention away, lest he demand a replay now. "I will put this one with the others, for your... disposal."

"Such sacrifice, Baralai." The Founder's observation runs condescending fingers across my nerves. "I might believe you are truly ready to defend Vegnagun as is required, to keep it from being used as a tool of war. Now you must prepare yourself. "I intend to instruct you on a small matter that may assist you in your defense. It is a spell which is but a trifle of the greater magics, one which mages once formally called _Demivitas_ but... mm, _youth_ shortens it these days to simply _Demi_."

Demivitas. The name does not sound familiar, though the nickname whispers familiar to me of fiends. My experience with magics is limited, regulated to only that which Yevon's courses has enforced--and those involved with healing, not death. Regeneration, curatives; that which paralyzed and drained are not my regard.

It should not surprise me any longer that Trema knows of unholy spells, even worse than the numbing wound he applied once to my arm.

"My lord," I protest, shaking my head against the lurch of my stomach, my inexperience with blacker spells, "I do not--"

His rheumy-eyed glare interrupts me. "You will need these things, Baralai. Do not think for one moment that you will not. After you are done learning these spells, I will go to the Via. I expect you to manage Bevelle in my absence. If I return, and you have been killed out of your own incompetence, I shall be very displeased."

Our eyes meet. Gazes war. In the clouded depths of the Founder's vision, any potential reflection of myself goes lost in the smeared cataracts of his age. And yet, as I watch, Trema's eyes begin to clear; dark, sharp, they focus on me with an ease I cannot comprehend, not from a man who should be too ancient to care for the immediacy of the present.

I relent first. My regard shifts to the floor, chin dipping as I avert my eyes. "Yes, my lord." In such a neutrality of voice before, I have agreed to so very much. "I accept this necessity."

Fixated as I am upon the richly patterned weave, I only hear Trema as he begins to move, creasing steps into the carpet. "This is mere preparation, Baralai. You must remain willing to leave your own hesitation behind. As my acolyte, you shall follow me when all is ready. After the spheres are destroyed, you and the rest of the Lustrum will join the council of Bevelle as I help to usher in the truth of a New Yevon."

His voice has grown louder. Now the tips of Trema's boots enter my vision, even while I am wondering how long it might take before these twisting ploys will kill me.

Trema answers my unspoken question for me as his hand rests itself on the back of my head, an unholy benediction of one intrigue to another. His fingers are heavy. I hold my breath against the miasma of sickly-smelling power unexplained.

"The path has only just begun, Baralai. Today, and every day, until eternity itself meets the Farplane. We have forever to walk."


	23. Epilogue

The snows come early, even for midwinter.

Acolytes shuffle themselves dutifully together to clear the stairwells. Their formal coats are faded dots of color in the repeating blizzards, stumbling sleepy, ant-trundling on their daily chores. Breakfast will be a welcome relief when they are done, but I know from experience that they will be occupied for at least another hour to come.

I watch as a pair of them meet on a balcony far below. One drops their shovel with a clang that rattles all the way up through the temple; they retrieve it with a guilty yank, giving a bird's wary glance around before they jerk their head up to see if any of the guards have noticed.

Upon seeing me motionless upon the Highbridge, they drop into a hasty ritual bow so quickly that their shovel almost strikes their companion.

Coffee freezes in my hands. I grip the earthen mug and feel the waning heat seep into my palms. Gloveless, the blood circulates sluggishly, leaving my fingers pale on their pads. The color is dusty, sullen, and disliking of the temperatures despite my skin color. I lift one stiff hand up to greet the acolytes back and promptly am forced to cover a yawn with it instead.

They scurry away, taking advantage of my distraction to vanish.

No matter how many times I may coax myself out of bed, I will never enjoy these early Yevon mornings.

Dawn watch is a prolonged task of punishment. I rise earlier than the priests who form the council of New Yevon; this is by choice, despite the numerous rationalizations that erupt each morning when I drag myself out of bed. When my feet hit the chilled stone of the floor, I think not of politics, but of diving right back underneath my blankets and remaining there.

The advantage in waking comes entirely in allocation of the younger members of the faction. Receiving reports from and delivering orders to various acolytes keeps them busy earlier in the day, rendering them unavailable to other priests. Each morning when the older priests finally rouse themselves, they discover that I have already been up for hours. My own machinations have had head starts.

My true business might be as minor as ordering another report on Kilika's import rates, but the message is clear.

The younger acolytes are mine. I claim them by right of my own business and my willingness to manage them, and find numerous means to keep them occupied whenever a priest might have need. They take diction from me. That is all the message I need, and more.

Unfortunately, I have begun to lose so much sleep that I have thought about training myself to nap while standing upright on the ramparts.

This morning births itself in frail light. The winter storm that swept down from the north of Bevelle has hung over the city since yesterday's noon, and the only cloud-breaks have been fleeting as a trader's discounts. Travel has been choked off near the pass leading to the Macalania Woods. Effectively, the temple is enclosed in a cave of white ice. All we can do is wait it out.

A squeak of snow is initial warning of a visitor.

"Lord Baralai." The voice is unfamiliar at first; I recollect it between the moments it takes for the priest to troddle his steps across the Highbridge. He makes a muttered curse when an icy patch causes him to waver. I refrain from turning until I hear the man's recovery.

"Priest Yhollain."

Marked by name, the elder halts. His hawk-wisped hair is weighed by the snow which feathers down the strands into a cold-spoked crown. Past his prime with middle-age but a memory, Shollain is one of those rare finds in Bevelle --a priest who believes in the absolute justice of authority once it has been placed, that the structure of an establishment is a requisite for all civilization. While he does not trust me entirely, nor I him, he is willing to yield to the tides.

It helps, naturally, when the oceans speak in a tongue he finds sweet to his ears.

"You should not have stirred yourself at this hour, lord Yhollain." Switching my cup to the balcony rail, I snap my hand out to halt his traditional bow. Even as his eyes crease, I am claiming the maneuver for myself. Palm over palm; head lowered and then I am straightening, my chin the last thing to rise. Deference.

The movement reminds him of tradition. So long as I am dressed in it, I am a part of Yevon. I am what he has lived to serve.

"What news brings you out here so early?"

"Lord Baralai." Unable to recover his bow to me now that I have [subsumed] the move, Yhollain simply repeats my name and title. "I'm afraid there have been no spheres found after the theft. It... may be that Lord Trema truly _was_ the one..."

Faltering, Yhollain ends there.

My cup is heavy in my hand when I pick it back up. I ignore it as best I can as I shift its weight in my fingers, unwilling to expose my palms when they are empty lest a stray act of body language say too much. "Please keep at it." Even to my own ears, my voice sounds callous against Yhollain's crumbling hopes. "There are a few... personal spheres."

"Ah -- yes, my lord." Doubt wars in the priest's mind. The nature of my demand wrests him out of it. "The ones you marked red?'

I nod. Reply comes mechanical from my mouth, carefully bland. "Yes. You have no need to look at them."

The taste of my own indifference is sour as leftover cream against my tongue.

"Perhaps it was the _Youth_ League insolents that have stolen them," the elder mutters. His hands squirrel into his sleeves; gnarled fingers bunch like tree roots in moss-cloth. "That would be just like those meddlesome heathens, what with all the trouble they have been stirring. I wouldn't be surprised if..."

Nooj.

I will not let him win.

"Find the crimson spheres for me," I order softly, breaking through the mumbled rhythm of the priest's condemnations. "I want them back."

When Yhollain finally departs, hissing a personal litany of rancor against all forms of rebellion, I lean heavily upon the rail and stare down at the changing of the guard.

It has been six months since Trema's autumn disappearance. I played as much the ignorant as the rest of New Yevon, reacting with indifference at first when the Founder was absent from his meals, and then with mounting surprise as each scrap of news trickled in. No, Trema had not been seen at the libraries. Nor leaving the temple either. Did anyone imagine him to have been summoned elsewhere?

The guards knew I had gone to see him during the week, but my affairs with relocating the spheres to the Via had been performed in back corridors, with none to incriminate me. Bevelle's secret passageways opened themselves like a stonework flower.

I use them more often than I should now, slipping through the gaps between buildings, suffusing myself in the thrum of the generators while I walk.

When the search was performed upon Trema's study, I attended under the pretense of incompetent helpfulness. There had been spheres, I pointed out helpfully, but now they were strangely absent from Trema's quarters. Perhaps they had been related to his disappearance?

Rooted by the fireplace mantle with my feet firmly upon the edge of the carpet, I nodded to every question while the guards went over every inch of the room save where I stood. I fidgeted my hands at least once, and made sure to stammer when asking if the Founder would be safe.

It worked. Determining me outside the range of Trema's more intimate plans, the priests left me aside in their private quarrels for who would lead New Yevon next. No one imagined that I might have power without the Founder to back me. Certainly not knowledge that might unseat them. When I first began to call on the younger acolytes for my own tasks, they expected only that I was engaged in mundane work around the temple.

Rather than leave the Founder's study to be claimed by the next priest or councilman greedy enough to hope for such a role, I moved my own possessions there overnight. More than one secret waits within these chambers. I do not wish for others to find them before I can either seal them up, or determine them harmless.

Just as readily as that, Trema is gone.

To the rest of the world, the official reasoning is that he has retired for meditations on Spira's future. I wonder how long that lie will hold.

As for the reality, I do not know when the Founder might return. The spheres which power the access glyph to the Via Infinito have been removed by my own hand, secured within a cubbyhole in a storage passageway where no priest would think to look. I myself was barely able to fit. At first I feared that Trema would be able to return from the Via through a secret way, to reverse the lock from within, but there has been only silence.

For all I know, he could escape at any time, and simply has chosen not to.

The winter draws itself around me as I wait upon the Highbridge. Ice has packed hard upon the banners which are laced from balcony to gate, until not even the wind can move them.

In my mind's eye, all I can see is reddening snow.

There are books in Trema's study about the Mi'ihen Crusaders, logs of what looks to be personal accounts over the years from numerous officers. Again and again I find in the margins angry annotations--Trema's script declaring that the Crusaders were only so strong as their enemy, and that he should have planned better. Bile dents the pages deep with the force of Trema's quill strokes. I understand little, wading through the sporadic thoughts left behind in shorthand, but none of it serves to reassure me.

What _was_ Trema? Exactly how old was the man? An elderly priest near the end of his natural lifespan should not have been driven by the desire to change the future. Records show that the Founder was already old when he was involved with Bevelle, but never before Sin's final Sending did he appear upon the books as a figure of import.

What past was Trema seeking so desperately to escape, that he wanted to drag all of Spira with him?

I cannot be sure. I don't even known that the threat, if any, Trema might have presented to Spira is gone. Like Vegnagun, he is another secret harbored by Bevelle--and, like Vegnagun, the lack of knowledge can become deadly.

Or hidden. With the Den of Woe sealed by the Crimson Lock, and most of the spheres that would unkey it lost to Trema's destructive ideals, I do not think there are enough left to possibly reopen the portal again.

The stories of the Teams will be forgotten. Team Four's goodwilling camaraderie. Team Three's wariness. Team Six's rebellion, and our own squad's moonlit laughter. The deaths of all the Squad in the end at the Den of Woe, all save the four of us who escaped to share the truth with no one.

All gone.

With that knowledge, I find my conscience easing in regards to the Via Infinito. The spheres the Founder had claimed had been the distraction that allowed me to seal up the chamber, and they have exacted their own revenge upon the man who wished to erase them.

In time, Trema will also be forgotten.

He would have wanted it that way.

And now it is up to the younger members of New Yevon to stretch our wings, and see what it is we might reap.

Nooj broke away from New Yevon when word got out that Trema disappeared. Knowing him, he may have suspected a coup on my part--or hoped for one, fulfilling the criteria spelt out by his own private game. Nearly half of the Seekers went with him upon the discovery that their hard-won spheres had been stolen by the Founder. The rest are being lured away by the prospect of freelance, selling their finds to either New Yevon or Nooj's mob now that there is a choice of buyers.

Sphere Hunters, they're calling it now. A glamorous title for thieves.

Gippal's keeping his word, and remaining out of the whole deal. Yevon has left him control of Djose, in accordance to my orders, and I claim justification based upon the developments in machina that Gippal's Al Bhed are advancing. New Yevon thinks we're using him; let the priests believe so, as long as they leave Djose in peace.

Bevelle spreads out below me. Even covered in heavy drifts of snow that bulk the rooftops as a beast with its winter coat, I can identify the buildings from here that network tunnels back and forth between them. The western half of the temple is occupied by three of the younger acolytes today, stationed with the purpose of clearing out Bevelle's natural canals from the ice that builds up around their drainage slots. Their visibility is high; marked by their Lustrum coats, they will see and be seen by all the guards.

That's what I'm planning on.

Gella is assigned to the eastern half today, having taken over training of the acolytes in staff practice. All of them look up to her; they admire her talent, and she no longer bothers to speak in any accent other than her native village. Her hair is short-trimmed all the time now. Her wardrobe, she took great delight in telling the rest of us, consists entirely of pants and jerkins.

With the outcry upon the disappearance of the spheres and subsequent vilification of Trema, very few priests have focused upon the Lustrum. They are assumed to be pawns in waiting, patiently discarded until the council determines what to do with them.

I was the only one of them who might have proven dangerous, with my history working for the Founder. My initiative with the acolytes betrays ambition. By now, a number of the higher council have begun to realize that I may very well be in a position to desire power for my own, but they are weighed in their stalls by tradition. They believe their roles invincible, that their only enemies would come from their own ranks, and not from the young. The past makes them heavy. They cannot abandon it, even if doing so would open their eyes to the growing shape of the future.

I have met the newest praetor. He is not that much older than I am, already a puppet of his father; that priest, I have met as well, during a recitation of the state of Kilika to Bevelle's councilmen. The praetor and his father both dismissed me when I averted my eyes in deference to their station.

They do not expect me to be a threat to their power either.

The hour has crept past morning rise by the time that Dopha comes to find me. He is always late when he checks in, ever since the winter began. Once the delay was so long that I went looking and found him still huddled by the fires, screwing up his expression into tight-lipped reluctance when I asked him about his absence.

Dopha likes the cold even less than I do. He compensates by dressing in heavier clothes now that the Lustrum uniform code has been almost completely discarded by the senior acolytes. I have returned to my green jackets, Gella to her practice outfits. For his own part, Dopha purchased an overlarge jacket with inner wools that, he complained to me later, smelled as if it was used to warm the man's chocobos.

The jacket makes it easy to distinguish Dopha from any of the guards or other priests who might travel the Highbridge in poor weather. I see him well by the time he turns the second curve of the walkway, navigating over the main temple gates and closer to where I wait. Rather than call out, I only wait for his approach, and say his name when he is on the final stretch.

"Dopha. Taking your time again?"

The Lustrum doesn't wait to greet me in turn before he lifts his voice. "I heard Yhollain muttering this morning while he was coming down the stairs, but he took the long way around. That's why I thought you were on the _opposite_ side of the temple." Irked with the novice-level deception, Dopha works his way across the snow towards me. His balance, never completely steady, wavers upon explosion of a sneeze. "Nnn--not that you could be _bothered_ to come inside. Would it _kill_ you to do this watch from underneath a covered walkway instead?"

Hiding my smile as Dopha reaches me, I watch as he lumps himself against the balcony, a perfect picture of sinus-stuffed misery.

"It might."

My reward is another long snort. Dopha wrinkles his nose, squints eyes that are certainly much less swollen than he pretends. "I've got good news." His affront at the cold is coin collected, swept aside once business has replaced table gambling. "No one's noticed Somasil's return yet, _or_ the change in records. He's taken up quarters near the sculleries. Guessing from how healthy he looks, I think he's glad to be back."

"That's a relief." One glance is all it takes to my long-chilled mug upon the thick stone railing, before I leave it to the mercy of the snow. Several flakes drop directly into the liquid and float upon the surface before gradually yielding to the substance, melting away as bodies might drown, soundless. "Then we've chosen well in our timing. What about Shelinda? Has she been kept out of trouble?"

"I think Gella has her reorganizing all the equipment in the training hall." Wiping a drop off his nose, Dopha halts to frown in my direction. "Baralai... she told me the other day that she was thinking about leaving Bevelle, that she feels too pushed around by everyone here. Is that really what you want?"

Colors drown in the monochrome of the snow, but I recall clearly the play of red firelight, the war of blue lamp-streaks. A conversation born a year ago. Shelinda, and her questions. Helplessness.

"Yes."

For once, Dopha does not force the issue. He jams his fingers into his hair to rake clumps of half-melted ice out, spreading woolen gloves against his scalp. One drop of mucus clings to the tip of his nose. I watch him in silence, and then remember to speak.

"Did you hear anything from the council meeting?"

"More than I wanted to." Disgruntled, Dopha creases his face in a grimace, promptly puffing away a snowflake that meshes with his errant bangs. No one suspects Dopha of cunning past his own calculations and gawkishness; this is precisely why I ask him to watch Bevelle's more intricate business. "The new praetor's thinking about sending an emissary to Besaid. It looks like they're planning to try and contact the High Summoner. Probably as an ally, to keep her from running loose."

Thought of the Lady Yuna overcasts my thoughts. Her sudden retirement to Besaid after Sin's destruction had brought on waves of gossip. This is not the first time her name has appeared on the council's business, but no serious gestures had been made before now.

I would be a fool at my own game to think that a woman who once reversed the fate of Spira could not do the same twice.

Judgment evicts itself slowly from my mouth. "They're looking for a way to cement the new praetor's power. A political setup. Nothing more," I add, seeking to convince myself as well as the Lustrum. Even as I say the words, I can think of a thousand ways to disaster. "They won't be able to befriend her, either. Her experiences at Yevon's hands will leave her wary of their initial overtures. But if we wait until she comes to us... we'll look much better than if we tried knocking on her door."

Dopha is silent, and I continue patient declamation of the ruse as the snow tumbles down. "The council won't last for long. They come from before New Yevon's time, and still expect that tradition will favor them solely on age alone." When I shake my head, ice flakes tumble free. "No. I don't think the Lady Yuna would surrender herself to Bevelle so easily, not after her last marriage."

Ironic, how Seymour's presence helps us from the grave. The suspicions that he raised hover upon Bevelle like a black-winged shadow, looming in proof of the merits of distrust.

Blowing a sigh through his cheeks, Dopha presses forward, leaning upon the balcony with little regard to the snow that sticks in clumps to his heavy jacket. "I'm not looking forward to whatever the praetor's planning, Baralai. I _like_ working the way we are now. Where _we're_ in charge of ourselves," he notes, turning his head towards me, the slouch of his shoulders matching the scholar's wheedle in his voice. "Just us."

I understand his sentiment. Complete haste will only ruin us, but in comparison to Yevon, we are already soaring fast as a machina through the sky.

"Take it one step at a time, Dopha. We'll have our chance."

"I suppose." Placated, the Lustrum relinquishes his displeasure, blinking eyes heavy with a squint. Then he straightens. "Look." One finger rises, pointing at the sky. "The storm's lightening."

Startled out of thoughts that layer like the dust of Bevelle's stairwells, I turn my eyes upwards. At first the monochrome pallor of the storm blends into a single watercolor wash. Then, as I squint, I think I can pick out variance in that eggshell-smooth blur. Ridges of cloud puffs sail forth in slow motion. The worst of their fury spent, they begin to disperse at their own, patient pace.

Dopha is speaking, and there is a laugh of nostalgia deep against his tongue. "Remember last year when we had to hang up the garlands? Because of Larsolia? I can't believe everything that's gone on since then. But look at us. Everything's changed so fast, even though it can be hard to tell. I don't even know why I'm reminded about Larsolia right now." Dopha, careless with his own thoughts as they run out of his mouth in a stream's babble, gives a shrug. "I guess... I could blame it on the weather."

Time doubles itself upon the Highbridge now that Dopha has spoken, comparing the present to what is now only history. The past unfurls in a rush. There were guards last year, that I remember, but I had been wary of them and saw them only as a faceless mass to avoid. The Lustrum had been strangers. Bevelle was a faction that concerned me only because of Vegnagun, with nothing of the politics that have encompassed me since then.

A year ago, and I thought it truly was for the best if I kept Paine from becoming involved, no matter what the cost.

Larsolia. I realize it has been months since I last thought back on that fateful day, and my accidental encounter with Trema in the meeting hall.

Silent now, arms folded upon the railing beside my cup, Dopha leans forward to watch the temple below. I have gone quiet beside him, my head tilted up to see the sky. No flakes fall into my eyes. There is only cold, clear air, surrounding us both with the promise of winter's eternity. White blankets Bevelle, unstained for now, but with crimson secrets sleeping beneath the drifts.

"Yes," I find myself saying, whispering into the sussure of clouds parting overhead. "Snow can remind us of so many things."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Inland Taipan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28227) by [SwordofRebecca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwordofRebecca/pseuds/SwordofRebecca)




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